


Synapses

by theshopislocal



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B bottle episodes, Angst and Humor, Awkward Sexual Situations, Did I say angst? I meant ANGST, Drunken Confessions, ERST (EXTRA resolved sexual tension), F/M, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Masturbation, Medical Procedures, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Sexual Repression, UST, Virgin Sherlock, Well I say "a lot"..., a lot of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-19 02:06:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 52,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4728737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theshopislocal/pseuds/theshopislocal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Thrice.” </p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>John blinks. Shakes his head. Blinks again. “Thhhhrice.”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p><em>Is my mouth moving right n-</em> “Thrice in your entire life?”</p>
<p>“Yess, John,” Sherlock growls, hissing like a snake grabbed by the tail. “Thrice, three times, twice more than once and once more than twice, a veritable <em>triptych</em> of onanism. <em>Thrice.</em>”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. (Second) First Mistake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Narrowing to slits, Sherlock’s eyes dart side to side before he glances back up at John, perplexity staining his expression. “You’re attempting to communicate something through inflection.”
> 
> John wonders if all this heavy sighing is de-oxygenating his blood. “Yyyes. Spock.”
> 
> “Well,” Sherlock begins, contributing a sigh of his own, “I suppose we can wait for me to spontaneously develop the ability to read subtle social cues.”

 

Unsurprisingly, knocking on the door of the flat he’d moved out of seventeen months ago feels… _odd_. For one, the silly thing was rarely if ever closed, and for another, he’d _lived_ there - he’d hardly need to knock to get into his own flat.

 

“Sherlock.”

 

No response - also unsurprising. He knocks again. “Sherlock.”

 

No response. He knocks again and briefly notes the soreness in his knuckles; the door seems sturdier than he remembers it, only that doesn’t make sense. Perhaps he’s knocking too hard.

 

He knocks again.

 

“Sherlock, I know you’re in there, so open up.”

 

A short pause, then a rustling of cloth.

 

“Go away,” comes Sherlock’s muffled voice. John’s ear - the one that doesn’t have intermittent tinnitus from an unfortunate incident with a percussion grenade - places Sherlock on the sofa, assuming the furnishings haven’t shifted. Of course, Sherlock may have rearranged the place entirely; perhaps John won’t even recognize it.

 

He shakes his head and huffs. “Sherlock, open the door.”

 

“Can’t.”

 

“Sherlock.”

 

“I can’t open the door, John.” He speaks airily, and his voice inflects oddly. John pictures the fingers steepled under his chin and frowns. “Go away. Your assistance is not needed.”

 

John tilts his head and is partway through rolling his eyes - to the benefit of no one, as Sherlock is still inexplicably on the other side of the door - when he replays the words in his head: _I_ can’t _open the door, John._ “Sherl- are you alright?” 

 

No response. _Bugger, he’s probably turned an ankle on that ridiculous robe._ “Sherlock, _are you alri-_ ”

 

“I do not. Need. Assistance.”

 

The sibilants ring out, and John clenches his jaw. Holmeses are terrible for the dentition. “Sherlock-”

 

“Goodnight, John.”

 

“No, not ’goodnight’, Sherlock, it’s three o’clock in the after-” John purses his lips and leans against the doorframe. “Look, just- open the door.”

 

“No.”

 

“ _Sherlock_. Open. This. Door.”

 

“Can’t, sorry.”

 

“Oh, for - it’s ten paces,” he inhales for three seconds and counts them in his head, “Sherlock, _ten paces_ from the sofa to the stairs, now _open the bloody door_.”

 

Sherlock doesn’t respond immediately, apparently deliberating. _Wanker probably singed his hair on the bunsen burner._ The image is almost enough to make John smile. Almost.

 

“No.”

 

John licks his lip and considers throwing himself down the stairs. Then his mouth settles into a firm line, and he speaks shortly. “Alright, okay. Fine. Stand back.” He steps back three paces to the edge of the landing and angles his right shoulder toward the door.

 

“You will not break that door down.”

 

He bunches the sleeve of his jumper around his humerus. “Yes, I will.”

 

“No, you will not.”

 

“Yes, I w-”

 

“That door is triple deadbolted and steel-reinforced,” comes Sherlock’s baritone, diction crisp in the way he knows John hates. John frowns and glances at his reddened knuckles. “The injury you sustained in Afghanistan severely weakened your clavicle, you’ll likely fracture it or dislocate your shoulder if you attempt t-”

 

“My clavicle is fine, and since when are there three deadbolts on the bloody-” he shakes his head and leans himself against the door again. “No, never mind, just… Open the door, Sherlock.”

 

A brief pause. “Why?”

 

John puts his arms akimbo and tries (moderately successfully) to regulate his volume. “What do you mean ‘why’- you’re my best mate and I’ve not seen you in- days.” John has always had a knack for understatement.

 

A rustle and a creak. “Dull. Go away.”

 

John ignores the tiny sting of hurt that flares for a second in his belly. His ( _dull_ ) brain summons an image of Sherlock from a month past: skin and bones, nose bloodied, eyes darting, talking so bloody much and not _saying_ anything. John had hit him again just to shut him up.  

 

And now - in the typical way John’s life seems to go - he can’t get in the bloody door.

 

He takes a deep, slow breath - _Ella would be proud -_ and bites out, “Well, it isn’t dull to me, so you can open this door, or so _help_ me, Sherlock-”

 

The door swings inwards, and Sherlock stands behind it, poking his head and shoulders (in tact and reasonably normal-looking) around the side. He stares at John for all of five seconds. “My stride is roughly forty percent longer than yours.” John stares blankly at him, and he continues. “Only seven paces.” 

 

He turns around in a flurry of royal blue fabric and settles himself crosslegged onto the sofa, pulling the gown taut round his knees like an odd cocoon. John blinks and steps inside, shutting the door behind him. 

 

“Right, I’d briefly forgotten that I’m short,” he mutters as he walks toward the kitchen. “And that you’re a dick.” He grabs the kettle from the counter and fills it.

 

“Foolish of you.” 

 

“Terribly.” 

 

He switches the kettle on and settles back against the counter. A quick glance over the flat - he’s careful not to let his eyes sit anywhere too long - sets something twinging in his chest. 

 

The flat - or what John can see of it - is entirely unchanged. The stack of correspondence on the mantle run through with an illegal hunting knife, the stout red armchair and its tattered union jack pillow, the small array of petri dishes containing unidentifiable ( _thankfully?_ ) substances on the kitchen table - everything is just as it was the day he packed up his room, stood by the sofa, and said a simple, one-word goodbye. The constriction in his throat had made it incomprehensible and ugly, but he hadn’t said it again.

 

‘Unchanged’ may not be the right word.

 

John crosses his arms. “What was that about?”

 

Sherlock doesn’t look up. “What?”

 

“You wouldn’t come to the door. I figured you’d burnt your eyebrows off or something.”

 

Sherlock makes a disgusted face at the coffee table. “Why on earth would I do that?”

 

“Well, not on purpose, you-” he huffs and points a finger at Sherlock, a bitter smile tightening his mouth. “You’re deflecting. What’s going on?” 

 

Hearing the note of warning in John’s voice, Sherlock looks up. John thinks for a second that he looks odd, but then Sherlock always looks odd.

 

He stares blankly at John’s face for a moment, then narrows his eyes and lets them skitter across John’s frame and down to his feet. John clenches his jaw. “Sherlock.”

 

“How was your date? Other than the gnocchi,” he turns his head back to the table. “You obviously enjoyed that.”

 

“How could you possibly - no,” John interrupts himself and tilts his head back. “I don’t wanna know,” he says to the ceiling. “My date was fine, the gnocchi was fine. It’s all…” he glances over at Sherlock, who sits perfectly still and stares glass-eyed at the table, “fine- what’s the matter with you?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes dart up to his for less than a second before settling again on the table. John’s brow wrinkles - _he’s probably hidden fags inside the leg again._  

 

“I don’t know what you mean,” says Sherlock flatly.

 

John looks up from where he had glanced at the table in confusion, snorts, and crosses his arms over his chest. “Huh, right.”

 

Sherlock’s brow rises in a look of Mycroft-esque nonchalance, and John shudders. Sherlock doesn’t notice. “I’m sure I’ve no idea what-”

 

“Oh, well, let’s see,” John snaps, throwing his arms down to his sides and stalking into the living room. “You padlocked the door, you won’t let me in-”

 

“Deadbolted. And I _did_ let you in-”

 

“Well, you _wouldn’t_ let me in, and now you’re sitting there swathed in that silly thing-” he gestures vaguely to the dressing gown, “-like the bloody Nosferatu!”

 

Sherlock frowns and glances about in the vacant way that usually means he’s missed a pop culture reference. “And this is different from any other day?”

 

John thinks: _You’re_ alive _, you twat. Of course it’s bloody different._

 

John says: “Any other day when you’ve not had a case on for weeks? Yes, it’s different.” He takes a quick breath and moves to stand next to the armchair ( _his_ armchair), trying surreptitiously to investigate the table legs. “I figured you’d have burnt the place down in sheer boredom by now.” 

 

Sherlock tracks John’s eyes then rolls his own, nodding his head once toward the mantle. John follows his gaze to the skull and sighs before marching over and dislodging the packet of fags from the cranium.

 

“You seem to think me terribly destructive,” Sherlock intones.

 

John slips the packet into his trouser pocket and peers at Sherlock. “You’re the most destructive person I’ve ever met.”

 

Sherlock’s jaw tightens for a quarter-second, his eyes still glazed and unmoving. John thinks again that he looks odd - his stare unfocussed and somewhere in the middle distance, form still a good fifteen pounds less than a year ( _nineteen months_ ) ago; his hair is shorter now than John’s ever seen it, and his face is gaunt - ridiculous cheekbones stretching white, papery skin. 

 

_Well. At least now we both look like shit._

 

John sighs and steps forward until his shins bump the table. An empty teacup rattles on its saucer, and Sherlock’s head shoots up.

 

“Well. As you can see, everything is perfectly fine here. Your assistance is not nece-”

 

“I am _not_ your assistant, I am your _friend_.” John forcibly pulls his shoulders back from where they had rolled forward. “And on my _life_ , Sherlock, if you say you don’t _have_ frie-”

 

“I do have friends. You are my friend.”

 

…

 

An ellipsis appears in John’s head, clicking thrice like a typewriter; or sierra in morse code; or the triplet that got him principal clarinet in sixth form; or the Greenwich pips — _do not describe him — his voice was_ so _sof-_

 

John stares, blank-faced and unblinking, at Sherlock for - by his own dubious estimation - ten seconds. Then he exhales a soft and slightly hysterical laugh, before his face sets into hard lines. 

 

His voice comes louder than anticipated. “Are you _dying_?”

 

Sherlock’s brow furrows and his eyes cast about in bemusement. “Not at a significantly increased rate.”

 

John stares for another second or two, then shakes his head spasmodically. He approaches the sofa in three strides and holds out his hand. “Give me your wrist.” 

 

Sherlock rears back, his spine going ramrod straight, and - in a manoeuvre John might have laughed at if he weren’t so irritated and (admittedly) worried - pulls his arms inside the gown. 

 

“Oh, for the love of-” John skirts the edge of the sofa, his knees clanging sharply against Sherlock’s as he sits on the coffee table. He grabs Sherlock’s chin none too gently and glares when Sherlock presses himself against the back of the sofa as if trying to absorb himself into the cushions. 

 

“Stop it,” he says and patently ignores Sherlock’s scowl. Placing the back of his left hand against Sherlock’s forehead and his right against his carotid, he hums in concentration. “… Glands aren’t swollen. You’re quite warm, though. Pulse is elevated as well.” 

 

An thought occurs, and John’s eyes narrow. “Have you-”

 

“I haven’t taken anything,” Sherlock asserts, tone bland and a bit nippy. John drops his hands and purses his lips.

 

“Your pupils are dilated.”

 

Sherlock looks up then and stares defiantly over John’s shoulder. He talks through his teeth, “I have _not taken anything_.”

 

John stares at him for a moment; he’d nearly forgotten how odd Sherlock’s eyes are up close. His right one has a brown spot amidst the teal that makes the iris look like a tiny globe. No, a rusty penny.

 

Nineteen months Sherlock had been gone ( _dead. For a year and a half, Sherlock was_ dead). A lot might have happened in those months - clandestine meetings with informants and spooks, days of ill-begotten reconnoissance, probably a fair bit of trouble as well ( _enough for a lifetime, too much_ ); a relapse was hardly out of the question.

 

Of course, in nineteen months, nothing at all had happened to John.

 

“Right. I’ll just.. fetch the paracetamol, shall I?”

 

He stands abruptly and sidesteps toward the hallway.

 

“No need. I’ve taken the maximum dosage.”

 

John halts his step and sighs, weary of a sudden. He turns around slowly and clenches his fists at his sides; had Sherlock always been this exhausting? “You _just_ said you hadn’t taken anything.”

 

Sherlock makes an odd motion, and it takes John a second to realise Sherlock has crossed his arms underneath the gown. “You’re being unbearably dull.”

 

John bites his lip and crosses his arms over his chest. “When?”

 

Sherlock’s eyebrows rise incrementally. “All the time, to a degree. Right now, in particular.”

 

John really is too knackered for this. “When did you take the paracetamol, Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock inhales a short breath and tilts his head back in a nod. “Oh. Two hours ago.”

 

“How many?”

 

Sherlock’s spine stiffens almost imperceptibly. “Six.”

 

“Six?” John shifts his weight and his jaw tightens; perhaps he’d have his dentist send the bill to 221B. “Six is twice the recommended-”

 

“I recalculated the dosage to suit my body chemistry.”

 

“Your b-” his fists go to his hips without his control. _I look like my mum; Sherlock Holmes turns me into my bloody mother._ “Sherlock, you’re nearly a stone underweight.”

 

Himself waves a hand in a way that says something between ‘put him in the stocks’ and ‘let them eat cake’. “My Quetelet index is eighteen point three, which puts me at less than a kilo below optimal.”

 

John clenches one fist, the arm going taut while the other gesticulates. “I’m sorry, which one of us went to medical school?”

 

“I’m sorry, which one of us is a genius?” Sherlock imitates his tone (quite accurately), and John has a brief but visceral urge to clock him. 

 

“Well, that’s up for debate at the moment, isn’t it? Look, if you took six tablets two hours ago and your fever’s not gone down, there’s a _problem_.”

 

Sherlock shrugs artlessly under the gown. “Then, I’ll see a doctor.”

 

“I _am your doctor!_ ”

 

Sherlock’s head jerks up and he meets John’s eyes for what seems like the first time in weeks. ( _Months. Oh god,_ years _._ ) Even when John had grasped his chin but a moment ago, Sherlock hadn’t looked at him. Even when Sherlock had stood outside the coffee shop nearly a month ago, staring wide-eyed through the window and looking every bit as undead as he suddenly was, he hadn’t _looked_ at John - not really. 

 

He’s looking now.

 

John realises of a sudden that he may have shouted that last, and his ears warm as he takes in the ringing silence of the flat. Sherlock stares at him for an interminable amount of time, an unreadable expression on his face; John wonders briefly if it actually _is_ unreadable, or if these nineteen ( _wasted_ ) months have weathered his literacy.

 

“I’m fine, John.” Sherlock looks back down at the table. “I don’t require your assistance.”

 

His voice is oddly calm, soft in a way that makes John inexplicably angry. He balls up his hands again - pointedly ignoring the tremor - and swallows the wretched words rising in his throat. It wouldn’t do to say something-

 

It wouldn’t do to say something. 

 

John harrumphs and nods once. “Alright.”

 

He pivots on his heel and marches three strides towards the door, triplet points of light gleaming on the deadbolts.

 

The rub of it is, this is what he wanted.

 

In the moments after ( _keep your eyes fixed on me—_ ), there was shock and fear and (— _will you do this for me?_ ) sadness. In the days and weeks after, there was hateful silence and ( _it’s what people do, isn’t it—_ ) self-loathing. It wasn’t until several (— _leave a note?_ ) indistinguishable months had passed that he finally allowed himself ( _—goodbye, John_ ) to think it:

 

His first mistake - apart from getting shot, of course - was Sherlock. _Fucking._ Holmes. And once he’d thought that, a thousand other ( _shameful_ ) thoughts came unbidden:

 

_I wish Regents Park had been flooded._

 

_I wish Stamford had forgotten my name._

 

_I wish I’d_ never met _Sherlock Holmes._

 

And of course - of _course_ \- not a week after thinking it, like speaking of the devil, like presque vu, like bloody staircase wit -

 

The kettle goes off.

 

John’s hand is outstretched, fingers hovering near the door handle.

 

He stills for a moment - recalling two panes of glass twenty meters apart and a portly cabbie in a flat cap, all three destroyed within the same millisecond - and decides, steadfast, to make his ( _second_ ) first mistake.

 

“No,” he says, quiet but certain. He walks briskly into the kitchen and fetches two mugs, ignoring the bemused silence at his back.

 

“Nnno,” Sherlock responds a moment later, inflectionless, and John turns to face him.

 

“That’s right, Sherlock, _no_. You’ve been-” he struggles for a moment, “ _back_ \- for a month, texting me all hours of the day and night. Then I stop hearing from you entirely, Greg can’t reach you, Mrs. Hudson says you’ve not left the flat in a week, and now you won’t let me through the bloody door?” John shakes his head. “No, something’s wrong.”

 

He peers at Sherlock, trying for adamant while circumspect, but likely coming across as grumpy. Sherlock hisses through his teeth and turns his head away.

 

“I _did_ let you in.”

 

John sighs, his chest feeling heavy. “If it’s drugs, Sherlock, I’ll help y-”

 

Sherlock makes a frustrated sound in the back of his throat. “For god’s sake, I am _clean_!” He glares up at John for moment, and his face breaks into a sneer. “I’d nearly forgotten how tedious it is repeating myself for the clarification of _idiots_ \- you know, in my _time away_.”

 

John blinks several times in succession, and his heart does something he might diagnose as an acute arrhythmia. He stares blankly at Sherlock for all of ten seconds, then his eyes narrow; Sherlock is a twat ( _obviously_ ), and he’s often deliberately cruel, but never - _never_ \- to John.

 

“Why do you want me to leave?” John posits.

 

Sherlock’s sneer is replaced with shock for a split-second ( _point Watson_ ) before settling into mild indifference. He blinks twice, then turns his head with disdainful finality. John licks his lip and tries again.

 

“Until a week ago, you were practically _begging_ me to come-”

 

“I do not _beg-_ ”

 

“And now I’m here, and… what, you want me to just- go?” He lets his confusion colour his voice.

 

“Yes.”

 

John shakes his head at the immediacy of Sherlock’s response. “Why,” he demands.

 

“It’s…” Sherlock’s face turns a little redder, his eyes losing focus, and John wonders for a moment if he might sick up on the coffee table. “… It’s for the best.”

 

John squeezes his eyes shut and presses the heels of his hands into the sockets. “What- does that even mean?”

 

“It _means,_ ” Sherlock’s tone is annoyed, and John snorts in disbelief, “that I do not have a medical issue and therefore do not need-”

 

John looks up quickly. “If you say the word ‘assistance’ again, I _will_ deck you.”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes around a sigh and mutters, “Your intransigence on this matter is not helpful.”

 

John snorts again - this time in grudging amusement - and raises his brow in (pyrrhic) victory. “Agree to disagree on that one, mate.” He points at the robe still pulled taut around Sherlock’s form. “Take that off.”

 

“What?” Sherlock says, pulling the gown tighter around himself like a victorian era maiden. John feels his face scrunch up.

 

“For Chri- I’ve seen you in naught but a _sheet_ in the bloody _palace_! Now, take that silly thing off - it’s not helping your fever any, gone all red now. I’ll make up a compress.”

 

John marches to the bathroom, shaking his head in irritation, and fetches a handtowel from beneath the sink. On a whim, he glances into the bathtub and is surprised to find it free of experiments, gruesome or otherwise. A knot of worry settles itself in the pit of his stomach, and he quickly wets the handtowel, before striding briskly back into the living room.

 

He glances at his watch - a gift from Mary after she’d stuck him with a two-year-old patient who’d practically drenched him in projectile vomit - and reclaims his place on the coffee table, folding the damp cloth in neat thirds.

 

He glances up, and his jaw falls slack at the sight before him.

 

Sherlock is staring away - as he has been for the better part of the afternoon - and is nude save for a pair of faded black briefs. The royal blue gown is bunched in his hands over his groin, and he sits ramrod straight with his feet flat on the ground. The mottled flush on his face and neck traverses all down his chest, and even the tops of his thighs are pink and blotchy. But worst, John notes, are the five, six… no, _seven_ circular scars - mostly healed - along his side, one straying dangerously close to his left nipple. John’d seen those scars enough times in patients suffering domestic abuse and even in Harry, who - in a drunken stupor - had been known to do ridiculous (if generally minor) harm to herself.

 

Burns. Cigarette burns.

 

Someone had put out fags on Sherlock Bloody Holmes.

 

“ _Jesus_ …”

 

Sherlock takes a quick breath - his eyes losing focus for a moment as if it pained him - and his head twitches a negative. “Nnnnope. Still me, I’m afraid,” he mutters, and his eyes flutter closed but for a moment.

 

Sherlock shifts in apparent discomfiture, and the soft light from the window catches the sheen on his chest and forehead. 

 

A worried furrow forms in John’s brow. “Sherlock, you may need A&E.”

 

Sherlock, the cock, snorts derisively. “Don’t be an idiot.”

 

John blinks several times in quick succession. “I’m serious, Sherlock, you’re-” he settles his fingers against Sherlock’s throat once more, and Sherlock’s fingers tighten slightly in the gown. John looks down for a moment, then back up at Sherlock’s face, an odd heat building in the pit of his stomach like acid reflux. He peers down to Sherlock’s chest, gone nearly vermillion now with beads of sweat forming along his collarbone and sliding down to small, peaked nipples—

 

He looks back at Sherlock’s face, still turned away from John with lips pinched tight in… _shame_?

 

John blinks, bewildered. “Are you - ?” 

 

Sherlock’s eyes move side to side - his only guilty tell. _Oh my god._

 

John flinches and stands abruptly, knocking the table back several inches. “Oh _god_ , Sherlock! Jesus f-”

 

“I did say I didn’t need your assis-” his rolls his eyes at John’s glare, “- _help_.”

 

“Well, of course you don’t - !” A manic laugh bubbles up in John’s throat, but he tamps it down with a vicious glottal sound. “God, Sherlock, I was-…” he trails off, shaking his head vigorously, “ - actually worried about you.”

 

“There was no need.” Sherlock raises an aloof eyebrow even as his face contorts in-in… _Oh, GOD._

 

“Sodding hell, you couldn’t have just-just- put a sock on the door or something?” John scrubs his hand over his face. “Jesus, you let me take your pulse and check your _bloody_ forehead-”

 

“It seemed to put you at ease.”

 

An incredulous laugh. “Yes, Sherlock, because I was _worried about you_. And now you’re just - hell, I didn’t even know you _did-_ ” his hands flail about uselessly. “Oh _god_ , put your robe back on!” He turns around in a (pointless) attempt to give Sherlock (and himself) some modicum of privacy. “Christ, you are such a _wank-_ ”

 

A ridiculous thought occurs. 

 

“Oh god. Ooh my god, Mrs. Hudson said you’ve not left the flat in a week. A _week_ , Sherlock! Have you seriously just been sat in here this whole _bloody_ time just-just- God, what is the _matter with you?_ ”

 

The room goes silent save for the rustle of Sherlock’s robe. John turns back round in a flurry and glares at Sherlock, who, once again, has cocooned himself up in the gown, staring eerily blank-faced at the coffee table. John sighs and grimaces, then sighs again.

 

“You…” a hand musses his hair. “You never let me yell at you that long… Well, not unless I’ve missed something obvious.” Sherlock smirks - a weak and odd little thing - and John stares at him, awkward but spellbound. “You’ve not left the flat in a week.”

 

Sherlock pulls a deep breath in through his nose. “So you’ve said. Several times.”

 

John licks his lips, staring intently at Sherlock while Sherlock stares intently at the coffee table. “Are you.. having a…” _laugh? mental breakdown? psychotic episode?_ “…fit? Or- something?”

 

Sherlock looks up at John sharply, his expression caught between rage and… John squints, perhaps embarrassment? But before he can place it, the detective’s face goes irritatingly blank, and his glass eyes shift to the dirtied window. “It’s nothing to concern yourself with.”

 

_Jesus._  

 

… Well, John is nothing if not brutally honest with himself: Sherlock _had_ given him an out - more than that, really, Sherlock had actively tried to prevent John’s coming _in_. He’d padlocked - deadbolted - the door, he’d gritted his teeth and declared he was fine, he’d asked John to leave, he’d said he-

 

Hang on.

 

He’d asked John to go, to _leave Baker Street._

 

Through all the rows, all the ridiculous experiments that resulted in permanently foul-smelling RAMC mugs, shredded jumpers, and shards of erlenmeyer flasks being (somewhat) carefully removed from Sherlock’s hands and arms (and on one memorable occasion, his backside - _how, even?_ ) - through it all, Sherlock had never asked him to leave Baker Street. Always seemed quite put out whenever John had left in a strop, come to think of it.

 

But today, he had asked, demanded, nearly _begged_ for John to leave, and what had John said?

 

_I am your doctor._

 

John sighs, licks his lip again, and takes a cautious step toward Sherlock. “How long?” he asks. Sherlock glances toward him with a frown, but doesn’t meet his eyes and doesn’t respond. “How long have you had…” John falters briefly, then he mentally pulls on a pair of latex gloves, snapping the bands round his wrists, blowing a hot breath onto the head of his stethoscope. “How long have you had symptoms?”

 

Sherlock winces and draws his knees to his chest. “We _really_ needn’t discus this, J-”

 

“How long?”

 

Sherlock bites his lip in the way that makes him look about twelve. “Approximately six days, intermittently.” 

 

John folds his arms over his chest. “Intermittently?”

 

“It - the..” Sherlock grimaces, “ _symptoms_ … return.”

 

_Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfu-_

 

John harrumphs. “Right. How quickly?”

 

“Pardon?”

 

“After you…” he sighs, _to hell with it_. “Your refractory period, how long is it? On average.”

 

The careful blankness returns en force. “Irrelevant.”

 

Of course, leave it to Sherlock _Bloody_ Holmes to make every part of an already awkward situation needlessly more so. “It’s really not, Sherlock. If it’s lasting longer than four hours with less than an hour refractory time, you could develop a priapism, and you _reeeally_ don’t want that.” He waits for a response, but - of course - none is forthcoming. “ _Sherl-_ ”

 

“I’ve been able to divert it roughly every three hours for a period no shorter than thirty minutes.”

 

John takes a moment to parse the words spoken at peak deduction speed, then nods once. “Alright.. When.. how long since you last… ?” _Christ, don’t make me say it, you tit._

 

Sherlock frowns. “Diverted it?”

 

_Fuck it all._ “When did you last orgasm?”

 

The detective’s face flushes an unprecedented shade. “Immaterial.”

 

“Christ’s _sake_ , Sherlock, I _just_ told you-”

 

“And I _just_ told you, I’ve diverted it for thirty minutes every three hours.” Sherlock glares up at John, the sort of withering look that tended to atomize weaker men. John might have laughed, if not for the disgusti— _you’re a_ doctor _, Watson, pull it together_ — _sensitive_ subject matter.

 

He shakes his head in an attempt to clear away the debris. “So it was less than three hours ago?”

 

A roll of verdigris eyes. “Yes, I diverted it less than three hours ago, which I believe I have stated a _number_ of t-”

 

“Yea, why do you keep saying ‘diverted’, what does that even - ? Oh, god.” John’s eyes shut tightly; why is it that whenever a lightbulb goes on in John’s head it never illuminates anything _nice_? “Have you not - Sherlock, you _have…_ ” Sherlock reluctantly looks up at John, the queer little frown above his nose more pronounced than ever. _“_ You have…” John swallows, “ _taken care_ of it, yes?”

 

Narrowing to slits, Sherlock’s eyes dart side to side before he glances back up at John, perplexity staining his expression. “You’re attempting to communicate something through inflection.”

 

John wonders if all this heavy sighing is de-oxygenating his blood. “Yyyes. Spock.”

 

“Well,” Sherlock begins, contributing a sigh of his own, “I suppose we can wait for me to spontaneously develop the ability to read subtle social cues.”

 

“Sherlock, have you…” _I hate my life. I hate my bloody stupid, sodding li-_ “masturbated?” He looks quickly to the window, some adolescent part of him expecting to see a hundred familiar faces pointing and laughing.

 

Sherlock’s mouth tightens to near invisibility, the effect making him look strangely alien - well, more so than usual. “In the past week or ever?” he asks, tone bland as if asking after what sort of tea John would prefer. Not that he’d ever done that.

 

John stops his teeth from grinding, but only just. “In the past w-” Wait. _What._ John replays the question in his head. “Hang on,” he takes a small step towards the slightly shivering detective, “… ever?”

 

Sherlock nods once, lips pursed. “Ever, yes, thrice. In the past week, no. Now, if we’re quite finished addressing entirely irrelevant mat-”

 

“Thrice.” 

 

“Yes.”

 

John blinks. Shakes his head. Blinks again. “Thhhhrice.”

 

“ _Yes_.”

 

_Is my mouth moving right n-_ “Thrice in your entire life?”

 

“Yesss, John,” Sherlock growls, hissing like a snake grabbed by the tail. “Thrice, three times, twice more than once and once more than twice, a veritable _triptych_ of onanism. _Thrice_.”

 

“Yes, I-” _want to kill myself. One shot to the temple, dead before I’d hit the gr-_ “-understand. I…” John gulps and sighs, his vision going a bit red round the periphery. Yup, definitely low oxygen. “Fuck, I can’t believe I have to explain this to you,” he mutters under his breath before putting his hands at his hips and scraping his teeth along his upper lip. “Sherlock, it… it may not go away, if you don’t…” he flails a hand about spasmodically.

 

That single _bloody_ eyebrow again. “ _…Take care_ of it?”

 

John closes his eyes, nodding. “Right.”

 

“It will,” says Himself, nearly flippant enough to offset the flush spilling down his neck. “It always does.” 

 

John does a double-take. “It _always_ d- how often does this happen?”

 

Sherlock shrugs, the robe slipping artlessly from one shoulder. “Once every few years. It never lasts longer than a fortnight.”

 

John’s eyebrows climb nearly off his face. “A _fortnight_! _Sher_ lock…” A disbelieving smile. “Jesus, mate, just _take care_ of it.”

 

“No.”

 

John looks up at the finality in the detective’s tone. “No.” He repeats. Sherlock notices his bare shoulder, glares at it as if the appendage had personally offended him, then pulls the gown back into place. John steels himself, his jaw clenching til he’s sure he can taste ground bone. _Don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t even_ think _about aski-_

 

 Well, of course he’s going to ask. 

 

“Why not?” John flinches around the question and wishes (shamefully) that Sherlock could be just slightly more ordinary. Just this once.

 

Sherlock responds in his ‘even a dunderhead like you couldn’t miss something so _obvious_ ’ voice. “I do not.”

 

Well. When has wishing ever worked for John? “You do not.”

 

Sherlock’s face contorts as if he’s smelt something foul. “Of course not.”

 

“Oooof course not.”

 

A vicious eye-roll puts the detective’s irises behind his eyes. “Must you repeat everything I say? It’s reminiscent of that horrid film with the-” and trembling - but no less annoying for it - wave of the hand, “-parroting macaw and the irritating child.”

 

_If the shoe fits._ “I think you can just call it a parrot- and, what do you mean, ‘you do not’? You just said you’d done it thrice.”

 

“Hence my usage of the present tense, I _do_ not.” The _idiot_ at the end goes unspoken but very well-heard.

 

John nearly licks his lip, then bites his tongue instead. “Then when was the last time you did?”

 

Sherlock throws his hands up. “What does it _matter_?”

 

God _damn_ it. “Sherlock, you have taken eighteen hundred milligrams of fever reducer to no effect, you’re flushed head to toe and sweating when it’s barely fifteen C in here, your breathing’s erratic and…” John peers at the slight tremble in Sherlock’s jaw, only now noticing how close he’d stepped to ( _my undead best friend being absolutely_ ridiculous _on_ ) the sofa. “You’re _shaking_ , Sherlock- I’m not at all convinced there isn’t something medically wro-”

 

“Seventeen years.”

 

And the M.B.E. for services to non-sequitirs goes t- hang on. “…Sevent-” _Oh, Jesus. Oh bloody buggering Christ on toast-_ “-you were nineteen… the last time you… you were nineteen.”

 

“Yes.” A slight twitch in a pinkened cheek.

 

John shakes his head. And again. And again. “You haven’t had an orgasm since you were nineteen?”

 

Sherlock sniffs and muffles a prudish _ahem_ behind a slightly knobbly hand. “Yes. And as fascinating as your ability to compute simple subtraction is, I’d prefer it if- … what are you doing?”

 

John looks up from the coffee table where, he notices belatedly, he’d been staring wide-eyed and shaking his head. “Sorry. A lot of things are.. clicking at once.” He peers back up at Sherlock, his stomach contracting in a most unpleasant way. “Did you say seventeen years?” 

 

Sherlock sits back against the couch. “And we’re back to parroting.”

 

“The maddest thing I’ve ever - no. No,” John says to himself, shaking his head with a smile/grimace - _grile? smimace?_ “How is- how is it _possible_ that, of the two of us,” he gestures between them with an angrily pointed finger, “- _you_ are the repressed one? That _literally_ makes no sense-”

 

“I am not ‘repressed’,” Sherlock hisses with a glare aimed, oddly, at John’s chin.

 

John laughs bitterly at the cutting sibilants. “Ha, two-week long erections-”

 

“Is that the standard unit of erectile measurement?” Sherlock demurs.

 

John continues undeterred, “-for the past decade and a half? That’s literally _textbook_ sexual repression.”

 

Sherlock sighs, and his irises - gone bright green now, likely in contrast to his rose-red face - oscillate strangely in an aborted eye-roll. “You’re overusing that word, _literally_. I am always _literal_ , it’s redundant to state it.” The prick crosses his arms over his narrow chest.

 

As if John could ignore an opening like that. “Well, apparently you’re only _figuratively_ a wanker.”

 

The flat goes uncomfortably silent.

 

John’s head is tilted to the side - rather smugly - and Sherlock has all but pulled his lips entirely into his mouth. His eyes glaze over for a second, and - for an entirely surreal moment - John thinks the ridiculous man might actually weep. John’s head perks up in worry even as he thinks, _he’s an actor, Watson, could win a bloody BAFTA if he set his sights on it, bastard could fool anyone, fool_ everyone _, fooled Moriarty and NSY, fooled Mrs. Hudson - tosser fooled_ you _, made a right bloody prat out of you, you sad little—_

 

Sherlock inhales, his chest expanding a little too quickly, and the ( _crocodile’s_ ) tears are gone into the ether. “Your wit,” he intones, “so sharp.” He pops the ‘p’ and peers up at John through empty slitted eyes.

 

Frustrated and exhausted, John laughs. Or sobs. Or growls. “Yeah, so’s Occam’s Razor, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock’s face contorts dramatically, the unsated tremble now the quiver of fury. “Oh, for-” he leans forward on his elbows, all stubbled jaw and piss and vinegar. “Simplest solution or not, I _do_ not and _will_ not do it. My reasons are not pertinent to this conversation - a conversation for which I have expressed my distaste several times during the course of it - and I will not dis _cus_ them _or_ this matter _any._ _further_.”

 

John’s eyebrows raise as he smiles off to the side, as if through a fourth wall. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he begins, aggression bleeding through the false deference, “is it _personal_?”

 

“ _Yes_.”

 

John laughs silently in bitter disbelief. “Boundaries now, are there?” He turns to the dusty window. “Back from the dead, and now he’s got _bloody_ boundar-”

 

“Thank you for your input, Dr. Watson, you may go.”

 

John looks back to the sofa where Sherlock has demurely crossed his legs, his public school posture stiff as it’s ever been, and his blank eyes - pre-storm grey again - settled unmoving on the coffee table.

 

John breathes heavily for a moment, then swallows, the slight angry smile returning unbidden. “Are you having a laugh?” He licks his lip. “Is that what this is, you having a laugh?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed. “N-…” He seems to think better of this response and his eyes open, dull and impenetrable. “Yes, John. All a lark. You should see your face.” He looks at John, stone-faced, and jerks his chin toward the door. “Now, get out.”

 

John’s smile - insomuch as it might be called that - falters. Something is wrong. Something is… 

 

Something is very, _very_ wrong. “Sherlock…”

 

Sherlock looks away and clenches his jaw, teeth grinding nearly audibly. John wonders if he tastes enamel, or dentil, or pulp, or perhaps even blood. Red, brown, black blood pooling so dark, one could hardly tell it from the rain-soaked wool of a fifteen-hundred quid Belstaf-

 

“Okay,” John whispers. He clears his throat and says it again - “okay” - though he knows that Sherlock heard the first time. “I- I’ll go.” He turns, parade, and makes for the door - four strides, five, six, sev- 

 

He turns around quickly, before he’s even had a mind to. Sherlock stares up at him, just this side of dumbfounded. “Just…” he pauses and swallows compulsively. “You’re still…” _my best mate, my brother in arms, the reason I’ve not ate my gun for the boredom - everything, you’re_ everything _to me, from the moment I met you, you were_ everything _, and you don’t deserve it, you don’t deserve it at all, not a_ bit _, you sodding fucking bas-_ “I’m still angry.” A soft harrumph. “ _Really_ angry, but…” another gulp, “but you can…” he breathes a sigh, deep enough to empty his lungs, finally, _finally._ “Oh, sod it - you can talk to me about anything, alright?” Sherlock’s eyes are comically wide, but John doesn’t smile, can’t smile. “Psychopaths and…” a quick breath, and he trudges on, “-and _snipers_ ,” Sherlock winces almost imperceptibly, “and…” _whatever the fuck happened here today_ , “I dunno, mad things that make no sense, I s’pose. It’s all… fine.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes slowly return to human-size, and he stares vacantly in the middle distance. Biting his lip in that funny odd way, he nods once. He looks back up at John, and John knows there’s something - _something_ \- in those eyes, something there, something that means _something_...

 

But it’s been so long. So. _Bloody_. Long. 

 

John nods. “Alright,” he steps to the door and grabs the latch. “I’ll pop round tomorrow, check on you.”

 

Sherlock looks down and shakes his head. “That isn’t-”

 

“I know it isn’t _necessary_ ,” John says, scrubbing his hand across his eyes. “Just… I’ll be here, okay?”

 

Sherlock makes no response but to tilt his head in John’s direction, eerily bright eyes still on the floor, lower lip still bitten tight, face still flushed and shiny, hands still trembling and fidgeting at the hem of his robe. Grab. Release. Grab. Release. Grab-

 

“Right,” says John. “Off out.”

 

He doesn’t shut the door behind him.

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo… this one is gonna be a whopper. Not beta’d or brit-picked, so please notify me (and forgive me) of my mistakes.
> 
> This is only my second published fic, and I’ll be honest: this one might be slow-going. I wasn’t even quite ready to post this first chapter, but I figured a bit of feedback might kick me into gear. That being said, comments and concrit are welcomed and adored.
> 
> Additionally, tags are subject to change as chapters get posted. We’ll see where it goes.
> 
> xoxo,
> 
> Local


	2. Jam on the Conservatory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock huffs, pulling the white sheet even tighter around himself. He’d come out with the sheet (ridiculously high thread count, obviously) and the Cluedo box (partially destroyed in a Sherlockian fit of rage, the memory of which still amuses John to this day) and, really, the evening had just gone downhill from there.

John had an odd dream last night. One of those eerie sorts that one doesn’t remember even moments after waking but, for some reason, still weigh on the conscience (or perhaps consciousness) all day long. From behind the receptionist’s desk, Mary had cocked her head at his gruff morning greeting, and her mild perplexity had endured right up until his bitten-off farewell as he pushed his way through the rain-speckled glass doors.

 

Now, barely an hour later, he stands before Sherlock’s door, rubbing uselessly at his sore leg as he lifts a hand to knock.

 

“It’s open. Obviously.”

 

John sighs and lowers his hand, shifting his cramping shoulder. He opens the door - bloody heavy thing. “So it is.” He hangs his damp coat on the pin next to the Sherlock’s Belstaf - dry, he’s not been out - and turns to the detective, who sits cross-legged on the sofa. He’s in tattered jimjams - sans dressing gown - and John clears his throat, keeping his eyes strictly above the waist. “How are we doing today?”

 

Sherlock raises an arrogant brow. “To whom and yourself are you referring?”

 

John nods and folds his arms. “Stroppy,” he says and squints his eyes at the other man. “S’pose that means you’re fine, then?”

 

“Mm, yes,” Sherlock peers up at John. “I was also fine yesterday, when I told you I was fine.”

 

John’s lips purse. “Right,” he shifts his weight off his bad leg and catches Sherlock’s eyes following the movement. “Tea?”

 

Sherlock stares for a second - in that weird way that indicates the subject is either transparent or entirely invisible - then turns away, waving his hand in a gesture that could mean ‘no’, ‘yes’, or ‘kindly fuck off’. John rolls his eyes and foregoes guessing. He makes a quick volte-face and steps into the-

 

“ _Jesus Christ._ ”

 

… kitchen. If it could even be called that.

 

Every surface, aside from perhaps one foot square around the kettle, is covered with flasks and bottles and strange oddly-shaped equipment that John has rarely seen outside of Bart’s morgue and awful telly procedurals. There are several test-tubes of dark blood, as well as two large beakers half-filled with some sort of green and blue… _potions_? They’re bubbling ominously, and John has just enough chemistry knowledge (and Sherlock-knowledge) to know that the odd contraption containing them is some sort of ridiculously high-heat burner.

 

John turns back to Sherlock. “Are you synthesising anthrax?”

 

The detective frowns, bemused. “Not at the moment.”

 

John cocks his head to the side. “Do the other sociopaths think you’re funny?”

 

Sherlock brushes invisible lint from his shoulder. “It killed at the convention.”

 

John stifles a smile, then ventures ( _extremely_ carefully) into the kitchen. He eyes the phials on the table, hunching over to peer down at them. “Do I want to know whose blood this is?”

 

John hears the eyeroll, rather than seeing it. “Probably not,” Sherlock responds. John hears his fingers tapping anxiously at his knees. “Though you could deduce it if you _thought_ for five seconds.”

 

John rolls his own eyes and glances over his shoulder. “What are you screening yourself for?” Sherlock’s head jerks up, and his eyebrows rise incrementally. John scoffs - _wanker_ actually _thinks I’m an idiot_. “Of course it’s your blood, it’s not even coagulated yet.” John blinks slowly. “Med school, remember?”

 

The detective stares blankly at him for a second before a nearly imperceptible smile touches his lips. He nods once, “Good.”

 

John shrugs and straightens his spine. He walks three paces to the kettle and tries not to look at the horrid mess in the sink as he fills it. He sets the kettle on the base, flicking it on, and turns back to Sherlock. “So?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes move around rapidly and he blinks several times. “‘So’, what?”

 

“The results? Any abnormalities?” he responds, leaning back against the countertop.

 

Sherlock takes a short breath and harrumphs. “Excepting slight chemical variances due to a mild overdose of paracetamol-”

 

“I _bloody_ told you-”

 

“-no. All normal,” Sherlock continues, unimpeded. “As expected.”

 

John crosses his arms over his chest and pulls his bottom lip through his teeth. He looks back down at the absolute destruction of the kitchen table and frowns. “Just because there’s nothing in the bloodwork-”

 

“There is no medical cause, John,” Sherlock interrupts, tilting his head back to rest against the top of the sofa. John is nearly sure he can see the man’s - slightly elevated - pulse in the long stretch of his neck. “You know that.”

 

John shakes his head once. “I don’t know that at all.”

 

“Really?” Sherlock asks, his head popping back up. He favours John with a look of mild confusion. “Yesterday you were determined to declare me an erotophobe.”

 

John shudders unconsciously at the word and licks his lip. “I said you were sexually repressed, there’s a difference.”

 

“Ugh,” Sherlock rolls his eyes and lets his head fall back again. “I _abhor_ Freud.”

 

John quirks an eyebrow. “I’m not even remotely surprised by that.” He turns round, placing a hand against the kettle - barely even warm. Clenching his teeth, he reaches into the cupboard for two mugs and grabs a couple of bags - Earl Grey for himself and lemon ginger for Sherlock. He tilts his head toward the living room, “If you didn’t expect to find anything, why run the screens?”

 

Sherlock heaves a put-upon sigh. “Data. Posterity. _Boredom_.”

 

John chuckles humourlessly - _my undead best friend who topped himself in front of me sometimes bleeds himself when he’s bored; hullo, I’m John._ He harrumphs and fiddles with his empty cup. “Posterity?”

 

“Mm, yes. I’ve several samples from nearly every episode over the last ten years.”

 

That gives John pause, and he turns around askance. “Only ten years?”

 

The other man’s eyes dart side to side, and he holds his lip between his teeth for a half-second. “Sampling previous episodes would have yielded compromised data.”

 

John frowns, doing a quick bit of mental maths. If Sherlock only possessed samples for the past ten years, then he’s missing those from the time he was nineteen to twenty-si-

 

_Oh._

 

John feels himself go tense and winces when his shoulder twinges. He and Sherlock had never _explicitly_ discussed the matter of his drug habit, other than the occasional snapping remark from Sherlock regarding the state of his sock drawer ( _‘sock index’, what a twat_ ) after a drugs bust by Lestrade or a quick raid by John himself. As neither John nor Lestrade had ever found anything in the time since John had inhabited 221B, there never seemed to be any point in bringing it up. 

 

Of course, _now_ , John can’t help but wonder…

 

He glances back up at Sherlock and finds the man staring intently at him, though his face is entirely closed off. 

 

_Right, well. One awkward discussion at a time._

 

John straightens his back, and looks back over at the blood samples. “Patterns?” he inquires.

 

Sherlock follows his eyes, then adjusts himself quickly to lay flat on his back, draped across the sofa as if he were having a swoon. “Elevated levels of adrenaline,” he says to the ceiling, “as well as increased testosterone and dopamine. Significantly elevated vasopressin.”  

 

John frowns for a moment, thinking back to his reproductive anatomy courses - vasopressin, vasopressin, vasopr- aha, _‘hormone released pre-coitus in men, counter to oxytocin, released post-coitus’._ Johnconceals a snort behind a cough. “Obviously.”

 

Sherlock glares at the ceiling. “Quite.”

 

John opens his mouth, then closes it again with a click, unsure how to pose his next question. “…Oxytocin-?”

 

“Is generally released only upon orgasm,” Sherlock finishes. 

 

John nods, unsurprised but oddly… bothered. _Bothered_ by the fact that his best friend hadn’t _masturbated_ in the last twenty-four hours? John shakes his head at himself and turns back to the tea just as the kettle clicks off. He pours the water over the bags, staring sightlessly as his tea turns auburn and Sherlock’s turns a deep orange. He forgoes milk - not wanting to brave the refrigerator - but pulls the sugar bowl from behind the kettle, dropping two spoonfuls into Sherlock’s and, after a brief hesitation, one into his own. Might need the calories if he’s to put up with Sherlock tonight.

 

He carries the mugs carefully across the ruin of the kitchen and sets them on the coffee table, turning to drag his - _the_ \- red armchair to sit across from Sherlock. He lowers himself gingerly into the thing, trying not to strain his leg; at this rate, he’d have to bring out the bloody _cane_ agai-

 

“You have questions.”

 

John looks up at Sherlock and notices, of a sudden, that Sherlock has sat up and is staring at him in something approaching bewilderment.

 

John frowns, perplexed. “Yyyes…?”

 

“Why.”

 

John’s brow furrows. “Why do I have questions?”

 

“Yes, why do you have questions?” Sherlock responds combatively. “Why does it matter? Why do you care?”

 

John clenches his jaw. “Sherl-”

 

“No. No, it isn’t caring, or not _just_ caring.” He looks John up and down and tilts his head to the side. “You’re curious, _intrigued_ even - why?” 

 

John shifts and licks his lip compulsively; he’d asked himself that same question for most of today. He takes a deep breath, “Sher-”

 

“No, shut up,” he says abruptly, looking away from John and into the middle distance, his eyes darting back and forth as if computing a complex integration in his head - which he likely was. John clenches his hands nervously. “You have questions. Why do you have questions?” John doesn’t answer, as it’s clear Sherlock has all but forgotten his presence. “Your interest in the sexual preferences of other men generally extends no further than your pat response ‘it’s all fine’; you’re vocally and vehemently heterosexual-”

 

_Vehemently_ heterosexual? What does that even _-_ “Now, hang on-”

 

“You indicated yesterday-” Sherlock continues, his hands fluttering, “-that, of the two of us, it’s impossible that _I_ am the sexually repressed one - inference: you consider _yourself_ to be somewhat repressed,” he cocks his head, “which is possibly true based on your rare and rather prudish sexual discourse-” 

 

_What._ “ _Sherl-_ ”

 

“Though based on your shoes, hair, and-” he glances up at John briefly, sniffing the air between them, and makes a face, “-aftershave - _really_ , John? - no, it’s much more likely you’re _frustrated_ rather than repressed. And yet-”

 

John has had quite enough. “I-”

 

“And _yet-_ ” Sherlock projects over him, “-in spite of all this, when you believe _me_ to be suffering a psychosexual crisis, you don’t balk or beat a hasty retreat, _nooo_ , you have _questions_.” He peers at John with that irritating smile that indicates he’s come across a surprisingly challenging puzzle. “Your heteronormative superego should be blaring a klaxo-”

 

“I am _not_ -” John interrupts, before realising he’s unsure how to complete the statement - _vehement? repressed? prudish? frustrated? wearing far too much aftershave?_ “-heteronormative,” he decides, with a barely contained grimace. “If that word means what I think it does.”

 

Sherlock smirks. “It does.”

 

John glares across the table - _superego, my arse_. “And I thought you hated Freud.”

 

“No, I _abhor_ him,” Sherlock says gamely.

 

John snorts and reaches for his tea, taking a well-deserved gulp. “And to hate is not to abhor?”

 

Sherlock scoffs in his _you sad little plebe_ way. “Any idiot can _hate_ , John. Abhorrence requires _finesse_.” John rolls his eyes, but the detective’s smile only grows wider. “Ask your ques-”

 

“Did you seriously call _me_ ‘prudish’?” John demands, sitting forward in his seat - leg be damned. “After what I’ve just discovered about you?”

 

Sherlock grasps his mug and leans back. “You _are_ prudish, regardless of what you’ve discovered about me.” He takes a small sip and peers at John over the rim.

 

“Sherlock…” John sighs and interweaves his fingers between his knees. “I don’t think you’re having a psychosexual crisis.”

 

Sherlock frowns again and blinks about fifteen times in succession. “Why ever not? It’s a perfectly fair assumption based on the provided evidence.”

 

John rubs a somewhat wizened finger over his philtrum. “Yeah well, I’m pretty sure psychosexual crises don’t last seventeen bloody years.”

 

The detective stares down into his tea for a moment, then nods absently. “Perhaps not.”

 

John frowns at the blankness in Sherlock’s voice, but rallies. Something rather odd had occurred to him over his lunch break, a memory that - since recalled for the first time in nearly two years - he found himself running over and over again in his head for most of the day. 

 

He leans back, in the off-chance that speaking Mycroft’s name will cause Sherlock to spontaneously combust. “What Mycroft said-”

 

“Most likely deleted,” Sherlock interjects, and John nods once before continuing.

 

“What Mycroft said in the palace.” He lays his hands on the armrests to stop them clenching.

 

Sherlock frowns for a moment before his face goes blank. He leans forward and places his tea back on the table. “Ah. Yes.”

 

He rubs his hands up and down the tattered fabric of the armrests. “He made it sound like you-”

 

“Yes, I recall,” Sherlock intones, his eyes focused, oddly, on John’s bad leg.

 

John is nearly sure he doesn’t need to ask his next question, is entirely sure he _shouldn’t_. And yet…

 

And yet. “Sherlock, _are_ you a v-”

 

“Yes.”

 

John blinks. Shifts minutely. Blinks again. _No. No, that’s not-_ “So you’ve never…?”

 

Sherlock purses his lips. “No.”

 

… _Well, that’s just ridiculous._

 

For something to do - other than stare at Sherlock with his jaw hanging off like a bloody idiot - John grabs his tea, holding it tightly between slightly unsteady hands. He stares into the brown depths, his frown reflecting back at him. 

 

_Sherlock Holmes is a_ virgin _._

 

But, no, that doesn’t make sense. Sherlock Holmes - consulting _detective_ \- is an _expert_ on people. He may not have the social niceties or cultural mores down, but he understands people and their motivations - including their sexual ones - entirely. John recalls the jibes at Donovan and Anderson ( _looks like she’s been scrubbing your floors, going by the state of her knees_ ), the sexual tension - palpable and slightly terrifying - between him and Irene Adler ( _I could cut myself slapping that face),_ and, of course, the countless times the man had flipped on the sex appeal like a switch ( _all mysterious with your- cheekbones and turning your coat collar up so you look cool_ ).

 

And what of the experiments? Sherlock is a scientist at heart; he experiments on everything, _everything_ , from rodents to humans to _rubbish_ to his bloody _self_ , how - _how_ \- could he have never-

 

 “That doesn’t make sense,” John says, before he can think better of it. Sherlock doesn’t respond, doesn’t give any sign of hearing John at all. “Sherlock…” he huffs a confused breath. “ _Why n-_ ”

 

The detective’s head pops up and he claps his hands together. “Cluedo.”

 

John starts. “Clue-” he begins, then looks off to the side, shakes his head, and turns back to Sherlock. “I thought you wanted to hear my questions.”

 

“Your questions are dull,” Sherlock says, placing his long-boned hands on his knees to stand up. “Cluedo is slightly less so. I’ll get it.”

 

John watches his back as he disappears down the hallway. The tattered grey shirt - _likely a child’s size medium, skinny bugger_ \- stretches taut across his shoulders, but hangs ungainly from his middle and nearly billows with his strides. John sighs and wonders idly if he’s a help, a hindrance, or just another habit Sherlock has yet to break.

 

_God, I hate Cluedo._

 

—

 

John leans his jaw against the ‘L’ of his forefinger and thumb, noting absently that he’s slightly tipsier than expected from the one lonely lager he’d pilfered from the back of Sherlock’s (unsurprisingly disgusting) refrigerator. “You’re taking the piss. Assisted suicide? Are you serious?”

 

Sherlock huffs, pulling the white sheet even tighter around himself. He’d come out with the sheet (ridiculously high thread count, obviously) and the Cluedo box (partially destroyed in a Sherlockian fit of rage, the memory of which still amuses John to this day) and, really, the evening had just gone downhill from there. 

 

Sherlock sits back, his public school posture rearing its posh head. “Of course it’s assisted suicide! Mrs. White is an octogenarian housemaid - she hasn’t the capability nor the motivation to _garrote_ someone, it’s significantly more likely she provided the rope so the victim could hang _himself_ in the library, how can you not _see_ that?” Sherlock exclaims, one arm tucked against his stomach while the other gesticulates wildly.

 

John sits back in his seat with a smug smile. “You really can’t stand losing, can you.”

 

Sherlock lets out a frustrated sigh, his arms crossing primly over his chest. “I could prove it if this silly game didn’t completely ignore evidentiary procedure-”

 

“Oh ho ho no,” John says, grabbing his and Sherlock’s mugs and grunting as he gets up. “We are not MacGyver-ing another Cluedo crime scene - have you any idea how long it took to get the strawberry jam off the conservatory last time?” he glances over his shoulder at Sherlock as he makes his way to the kitchen.

 

Sherlock’s lips purse. “Had you used the cleaning solution I made-”

 

John turns around entirely at that. “I would have _burned the flesh_ off of my hands.”

 

Sherlock, for his part, doesn’t deny it, and has the (modicum of) grace to look chastised. Instead, he turns his head away in a strop. “… At least we wouldn’t have had ants.” 

 

John’s lips quirk up and he turns back toward the kitchen. “Nutter. You loved the ants.”

 

“I did not ‘love’ them,” John hears the mild indignation in Sherlock’s tone and smiles a little broader. “I admired them.”

 

John begins scrubbing out their mugs and, after a quick roll of his eyes, the other six Sherlock has let go mouldy in the sink. “S’not better.”

 

John hears Sherlock shift in the living room, followed by the soft patter of his feet as he steps into the kitchen. John looks over his shoulder to see Sherlock on the other side of the ruinous table, clenching the sheet around himself, and the sight is so domestic - so _familiar_ \- John can’t breathe for a moment.

 

He turns back to the sink as Sherlock says, “Ants can support fifty times their body weight using only their mandibles - an insect organ which, I might add, humans don’t even _possess_ -”

 

John snorts. “Thankfully.”

 

He hears Sherlock take another stride toward him. “They existed coterminously with dinosaurs during the cretaceous period and survived them after the K-Pg.” Another step. “The total body mass of the world’s ant population is comparable to that of its human populace, as the ratio of ants to humans on earth is roughly-”

 

“One and a half million to one,” John says as he rinses the last cup. “You said all this then, too.”

 

Sherlock is silent for a moment. “I thought you might have forgotten.”

 

John turns to face him, barely a meter away now. “I probably should have. Free up some room on the old hard-” he glances down. 

 

Oh, god, he shouldn’t have glanced down.

 

“… drive,” he finishes, knowing he should look away, but - for some inexplicable reason - completely unable to do so.

 

The sheet has fallen open and hangs off the detective like a cape, and, through the thin flannel of his pajamas, it’s all too clear that Sherlock is hard.

 

No, actually. Sherlock is _hard_. 

 

John jerks his head up just in time to see Sherlock frown and then follow his previous line of sight. He watches - more avidly than he’ll _ever_ admit - as Sherlock’s face contorts for a second in something like rage, then goes completely, startlingly blank.

 

The detective’s eyes flutter shut as he pulls the sheet around himself again. His eyes stay closed for a moment, and John has an unprecedented urge to reach out to him, to touch the bony line of his shoulder, to take his fever-clammy hand-

 

Sherlock’s eyes open suddenly, his pupils contracting slightly in the soft light. “You should head home. It’s nearly gone dark out.”

 

John swallows once, and shakes his head, trying - without hope - to clear the rubbish from it. “I’m sure I can find my way.”

 

Sherlock’s adam’s apple bobs - _laryngeal prominence_ , John hears the detective correct in his head, _‘adam’s apple’ is a byproduct of sexist Judeo-Christian traditions_ \- and his expression shifts in the same strange way it did yesterday, just before his eyes became glassy. “… John-”

 

“I’ve thought of some-” John talks over him, then pauses for a second. When Sherlock doesn’t interject, he continues, “-less dull questions. I think.”

 

Sherlock bites his lip. “Have you.”

 

“Mm,” John says. He turns his profile to Sherlock, leaning back against the sink, and harrumphs once, twice, nearly a third, before shaking his head at his own cowardice. “Sherlock, I’m not trying to embarrass you or-”

 

“I’m not embarrassed,” Sherlock interrupts, his head snapping up in offence, “not remotely embarrassed. Why would you think I was embarrassed?” he accuses.

 

“Okay,” John says, lifting his hands in surrender. “Alright.”

 

Sherlock scowls at him a moment longer, then turns in a huff and flounces his way to the sofa. John takes a deep breath, follows Sherlock into the living room, and wishes - mournfully - that he hadn’t already finished his lager.

 

“Ask,” Sherlock demands a half-second after John’s arse has touched the seat.

 

John clenches his jaw and nods once. He notices himself licking his lip nervously and rubs a weathered hand over his mouth. “You said-” he lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. “You said ‘thrice’… When-” _Jesus fuck, stop talking, just stop-_ “how old were you the…” _What does it matter? Why do you_ care? “-first time?

 

Sherlock nods once, as if he were expecting this. “Eleven,” he says, monotone, then his face breaks into a sneer, “Curiosity, you know.”

 

John does know. Of course, John knows. John is a normal, human man. _Sherlock_ , on the other hand… “And the second?”

 

“Fifteen.” The sneer returns. “Hormones, you know.”

 

John sighs, “Sherlock…” Well, what was he expecting? A warm and accommodating welcome into the sexual history of Sherlock Holmes, self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath? A bloody _red carpet_? “Was there ever any pain?” he asks, slipping into his GP tone. “Headache, stomach ache, numbness in extremities, chest pa-”

 

“No.”

 

_Rules out heart conditions, circulatory conditions, neural malformation, dissection- “_ Were you able to…” he rolls his eyes at the twelve-year-old part of himself that still seems to be struggling with the word, “finish?”

 

Sherlock’s jaw tightens. “Yes.”

 

“All three times?”

 

“ _Yes_.”

 

John raises a hand, palm out, and nods slowly. “Okay,” he sighs. “Okay.”

 

But it _isn’t_ ‘okay’. There’s something here. John’s been a doctor for seventeen years; he may not have the best bedside manner - stitching men up in fields of corpses while debris rained down on them had put paid to that - but his instincts were bang on, always. There’s something… missing. Something Sherlock won’t say.

 

“Did…” he bites his lip and his nostrils flare. “Did - _something_ \- happen?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes roll heavenward, and he mockingly tilts his head from side to side. “ _Something_ happens quite regularly, John, you’ll have to be more sp-”

 

_Twat_. “Did something happen to put you off it?”

 

Sherlock sighs now, his eyes closing briefly, lids fluttering. “Is it impossible that it simply doesn’t hold any appeal for me?”

 

John’s hands come up unbidden. “It’s _more_ than…!” he shakes his head compulsively and tries again, sitting forward in his seat. “Look, contrary to what you said earlier, I _reeeally_ don’t want to be discussing this with you, and I know you’re uncomfortable-”

 

Sherlock’s face scrunches up. “I’m n-”

 

“Sherlock, you’ve been in here for _eight_ _days_ ,” John interrupts. “Christ, who even knows how many cases you could have solved in that time, and-” another lick of his lip. He really should get some balm for that. “What we’re talking about here, it’s… it’s instinct. It’s a biological imperative, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock raises a brow and pulls his knees up to his chest. “So are eating and sleeping. I ignore those often enough.”

 

John nods. “Right, you ignore them _often_ , not _always_ , not- seventeen consecutive years. That’s…” _the maddest thing I ever heard of_ , “-a long time to go without- without-”

 

Sherlock smirks, but with little joy in it. “ _Taking care_ of it?”

 

John grumbles - why on earth had he thought teaching Sherlock innuendo-specific inflection was a good idea? “Yeah.”

 

Sherlock waves a hand, “I dispel my tension in other ways.”

 

_Risking your life to prove you’re clever?_ “Sherlock, did…” Oh, god. How can he even ask this? Not metaphorically, but _literally_ \- _how_ can he ask this? “Sherlock, did someone-” _fuck, fuckety, fucking-_ “Oh, Christ, did anyone ever-” he squeezes his eyes shut, “-take.. _advantage_ … of you?”

 

Sherlock stares at him, his face somewhere between blank and bemused. He blinks once, twice, three times, then his face alights with understanding. “You’re trying to determine whether or not I was accosted in my misspent youth?” he asks, eyes narrowed and brow furrowed.

 

John sighs, exasperated - beyond that, really. “I’m trying to determine whether or not I need to _murder_ some… creepy old violin tutor of yours,” he shrugs. “Or- something.”

 

Sherlock’s eyebrows shoot up for a moment, and he takes a breath as if to respond, then shakes his head and frowns. “Spastic uni coke dealer would be a more likely candidate,” he says, cocking his head to the side. 

 

John looks up sharply, a part of himself he hasn’t seen in two years rearing its familiar face as his hand twitches for his gun. A gun Lestrade had confiscated from him two days after Sherlock had died. A gun John will _never_ admit he had wished for on certain bad nights.

 

Sherlock catches the movement, but only rolls his eyes and waves his hand again. John has an inexplicable urge to break the knobby thing. “I was never molested,” Sherlock says, unconcerned. “Not by my violin tutor or anyone else. Though he was quite- _creepy_ , as you say. And terribly old. Dead by now, certainly,” he tilts his head and squints one eye. “Probably.”

 

John shakes his head for a few seconds, staring perplexed at his knees. When he looks up, Sherlock is peering at him with an unreadable expression on his face. “Then… what is it?” John asks.

 

“What is- ? Oh, of course,” Sherlock says, taking a deep breath and leaning back against the sofa. “You still think there’s an _it_ to be found.”

 

John scoffs. “Of course, there’s an _it_ , Sherlock, there’s always an _it_ \- you’ve said so your bloody self!”

 

“This conversation has become incredibly _boring_ ,” the detective declares and rearranges himself in a flurry until he’s supine, feet dangling off of the armrest. “Don’t you have some other engagement to attend?” he asks the ceiling. “Date with Mary? Early morning at the clinic?” He angles his head toward John with a mean glimmer in his slitted eyes. “A pathetic depression-flavoured pint or three with Lestrade?”

 

John can’t help it, he rears back at that. It’d taken longer than he’d like for him to notice he was in a downward spiral - in fact, _he_ hadn’t noticed it at all. It wasn’t until a year ago, they’d been at a seedy little pub in Hackney - fuck knows how they’d ended up there - and Greg had watched him down four pints in twenty minutes, like nothing. The look on his face when John had called over the barkeep for a fifth had been… well, he understood then what Harry meant when she said ‘sympathy is ugly’.

 

John had had enough then, and he’s had enough now. He points an angry but steady finger at Sherlock, his voice pitched a half-octave deeper than usual. “You once dosed me with a military-grade hallucinogen,” he says, feeling his volume rising but unable to stop it, “loosed me on a secret lab, played growling noises over the loud speaker to _terrify_ me,” right, he might be yelling now, “all so you could find your bloody _it_! And that was before you _jum_ -”

 

_Fuck._

 

Sherlock’s face has closed off entirely. Funny how he can do that - there one second, gone the next.

 

“Say it.” Sherlock’s voice is eerily soft, but John hears the challenge in it.

 

“ _No_ ,” John replies, fiercer than he thinks he’s ever said anything. He harrumphs around the tightness in his throat and blinks away the sheen in his eyes. “You’re back,” he says, voice gravelly, “and that’s-” he sighs, “fantastic. But now…” he peers down at Sherlock, whose face has softened a fraction, and trudges on. “But now you’re laying here, you’re not taking cases, you-” he gestures to the sheet, “-can’t be arsed to even get your kit on, letting the flat go to utter shit-”

 

Sherlock perks up. “That one doesn-”

 

“Yes, I know, that one doesn’t count,” John responds, holding up a hand.

 

Sherlock relaxes back into the cushions, his head falling against the armrest. “You always did the cleaning.”

 

John snorts. “Probably couldn’t find the hoover if you tried.”

 

Sherlock’s head tips up. “Is that a challenge?”

 

John raises an eyebrow. “Yes.”

 

Sherlock’s head falls back again. “Boring.”

 

“Sherlock…” John nearly smiles, but his eyes alight on the blush creeping onto the detective’s face and the sheen already visible on his forehead, and he frowns instead. “It doesn’t take a consulting detective to know there’s an _it_ here, somewhere,” John posits, and waits for a response, a counter, an insult, a _scream_ \- something. But all he gets is the slightly quickened breathing of his undead best mate and a familiar flicker in the grey eyes. He recalls Sherlock at Baskerville, shaking uncontrollably and downing scotch like water - _doubting_ himself. It had been terrifying - for the both of them. John sighs and tries again, “But what do I know? I’m just your friend.”

 

Sherlock turns his head at that, and John sees the light of recognition on his face - he hasn’t forgotten. Of course, he hasn’t forgotten; Sherlock never forgets anything.

 

“Are you?” the detective asks, something lilting and strangely… _hopeful_ in his voice. “Are you still… my friend?”

 

John stares at him. He remembers a time, just over a month ago, when he’d found himself wishing he’d never met Sherlock. And yet, right at this moment, with that reluctant sanguinity painted on Sherlock’s face, John is transported back to the night they met, the night John shot a man to protect him, the night John - _finally_ \- came alive. He feels his face soften and reckons his eyes might have glazed. “You’re an idiot,” he says, a small smile touching his lips - soft, but _real_.

 

Sherlock smiles just as he did that first night, though perhaps with a touch more reticence. They stare at each other for a moment, and John thinks it feels… nice.

 

He swallows once. “I do have plans with Mary, though,” he says and stands up, making his way towards his coat.

 

Sherlock’s smile shifts to a smirk, and he brings his hands - pressed together in his odd Sherlock way - just beneath his chin. “Yes. The shoes rather gave you away. Cinema?” he asks, quirking a brow in John’s direction.

 

“Yyyes…” John pauses in shrugging on his coat and looks over at Sherlock, who stares smugly at the ceiling. John feels his lips quirk. “Go on, then.” 

 

Apparently, Sherlock was waiting for an opening. “It’s too late for supper, all the shops will have closed,” he waves a hand, “so some late-crepuscular activity, then - pint, constitutional, film, et cetera.” He looks down at John’s shoes, and John notes the brief appearance of a tiny double-chin. “The shoes really are a giveaway, though. New, well-made, relatively expensive,” he lets his head fall back again, “and not remotely worn-in enough to be comfortable standing for hours at the bar or taking a stroll in the park, but certainly fine for walking from cab to venue - a venue where you expect to be seated throughout,” hands fully aflutter above him now, “so cinema - too late for a play.” He tilts his head and narrows his eyes as if contemplating the mould stains above. “The film about the team of doctors in the Sudan came out about a week ago. It’s the sort of film you’d like to see - presumably Mary as well - but certainly wouldn’t brave the crowds for. Tickets are cheaper midweek, and it’ll likely be an empty house for this late a showing,” he reaches an arm out blindly and grabs his phone. His face is briefly illuminated by the screen as he taps on it. “A quick search and…” he turns the phone toward John, “it’s playing tonight at the multiplex two streets from the clinic,” he finishes with a triumphant (if tired) smile. But when he glances up at John expectantly, his face tightens in a frown. “… What?”

 

John blinks. He’s not entirely sure what his face must look like right now - but going by Sherlock’s confusion - he might guess _stunned_. “Nothing. I just…” he looks down at his loafers. “My shoes?” he asks, brows raised.

 

“Hm, yes. Shoes carry a lot of information. For example,” Sherlock says, sitting up (finally) with a grimace, “there was a pulped sage pedicel caught in your laces yesterday. As I recall, Angelo uses whole sage to garnish several dishes,” he glances up at John but for a second, “but you only chew on it when you’re contemplating a second serving. And, of course, the only meal you’ve ever ordered a second helping of is th-”

 

“Gnocchi,” John murmurs, trying - and failing - not to be ridiculously impressed. He looks back over at Sherlock, sitting with his back straight and looking almost… chastised? “That’s how you knew?” The detective nods once, quickly, and John shakes his head. “Amazing. As ever.”

 

Sherlock looks up at that, and John is reminded of the first time he’d praised the detective — _do you know you do that out loud? No, it’s… fine_. 

 

“Yes, well,” Sherlock interrupts his reminiscence, and John licks his lip yet again. “You’ll need to go now if you’re to purchase concessions beforehand.”

 

“Right,” John replies, and tucks his chin down in a nod. He reaches for the door, fingers brushing over the deadbolts, “I’ll, er. I’ll come round tomorrow, yeah?”

 

Sherlock is silent for a moment as he pulls his sheet-covered knees up to his chin. John worries for a second that he might be told not to return, not that that would deter him. But Sherlock only shakes his head and waves a hand absently. “Do what you like.”

 

John lets out a breath and smiles, just a little. “Right. Off out.”

 

 

~*~

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, thanks so much to everyone who left kudos, comments, and bookmarks! I'm pretty sure your responses and encouragements are directly proportional to how quickly I write - something to keep in mind... ;)
> 
> Once again, this isn't beta'd or brit-picked, so please let me know if there are any mistakes; I may have been remiss in my proofreading in an attempt to get this up quicker...
> 
> Finally, I'm going for weekly updates here, but you mightn't want to hold me to that. Doing my best though, I promise.
> 
> xoxo,
> 
> Local


	3. Tiny Points of Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The detective’s face goes impenetrably blank. “This is not open for discussion.”
> 
> “I’ll pour you another,” John says, grasping the bottle.
> 
> Sherlock crosses his arms petulantly. “I won’t drink it.”
> 
> “Yes, you will,” John says and smirks at Sherlock while he pours it.

John is prepared this time.

 

_Well._

 

John is… significantly less _un_ prepared this time.

 

While it usually would have been his day off, he’d accepted a shift from Dr. Barouk, who had a tendency to complain in the staffroom about several recurring patients, all of whom believed they needed Viagra when moderate exercise and a healthier diet would solve the problem just as well. Thusly, John had had cause to say the word ‘masturbation’ five times, ‘arousal’ eight, and ‘erection’ a cool thirteen, over the course of today’s borrowed shift. He doubted Sherlock could come up with any more unnerving terminology than those (though he wouldn’t put it past him). Moreover, this was only _part_ of John’s plan.

 

Why yes, John Watson has a _plan_.

 

But, first, he has a bone to pick.

 

“You knew I’d hate that film, didn’t you?” he says just after pushing through the door. 

 

Sherlock looks up from where he is typing furiously on his phone, his face mildly illuminated and slightly perplexed. “You didn’t enjoy it?”

 

John rolls his eyes, forgoes asking if Sherlock would like tea, and heads toward the kitchen. “Don’t sham at stupid, Sherlock,” he says as he turns on the kettle, “You’re awful at it.”

 

Sherlock raises a brow and looks back at his phone. “You flatter me.”

 

“Made a bloody career out of flattering you,” John mumbles.

 

“What was that?”

 

“Do you know,” John says, venturing back into the sitting room, “I’d’ve been perfectly happy to’ve seen - oh, I dunno - _anything_ else, other than that ridiculous farce of a film.” He crosses his arms, “You might’ve told me I’d hate it.”

 

“I might’ve,” Sherlock says, clicking once more on his phone and tossing it onto the coffee table. “And you might’ve called me an arsehole know-it-all and gone to see it anyway.” A slight smirk touches his lips, “Tell me, did _Mary_ enjoy it?”

 

John squints, trying not to think of how Mary had fawned over the handsome (and entirely talentless) lead actor, but writes it up as a lost cause when Sherlock only smirks wider. “You’re an arsehole know-it-all regardless.”

 

“Mm,” the prat says, pulling his gown together at the neck.

 

It seems John is not the only one who’s prepared this time. Sherlock is covered neck to ankles in not only his jimjams, but a tattered maroon robe, _and_ the white sheet. John isn’t sure if he’s glad of it or not.

 

Wait, no. Of course, he’s glad of it. He’s very, _very_ glad of it.

 

He shakes his head, wondering if spending this much time in Sherlock’s presence after so long without might be causing some sort of contact-insanity.

 

He licks his lip once. _Here goes_. “Do you- …” he begins, and falters immediately.

 

_Oh, shit._ Why didn’t he write out a script or something? He hears Sherlock’s cultured voice in his head - _What use is a_ plan _if every detail isn’t_ planned _?_ \- and shudders. Should he ask it as a question or pose it as a statement? Maybe he should just… go for it? But no, Sherlock would see right through that. He rolls his eyes at himself - Sherlock will see right through _anything_ he does, that can hardly be a determining factor. But if he just goes for it, it won’t be _natural_ , and if it’s not natural, it won’t work. Oh, bugger, when has anything about Sherlock ever been _natura-_

 

“What.”

 

John starts and looks up, blinking thrice to clear away his circuitous (and entirely pointless) thoughts _._ “Nothing. Sorry,” he mumbles, half turning toward the kitchen.

 

Sherlock’s brow drops dramatically and he grits through his teeth, “ _What_.”

 

God _damn_ it. John should really know better than to try to plan anything - he’s not a _planner_ , he’s a ‘wing it and hope that the adrenaline can carry him to a win’-er. He frowns at himself, wondering how he could have failed less than two minutes in. “It’s nothing, Sherlock, I’m-” a shake of the head, “I’m being a prat, is all.”

 

Sherlock’s face softens slightly at that, and he raises a bemused eyebrow. “Somewhat out of character for you.”

 

John glances up, simultaneously surprised, pleased, and confused in the way that only Sherlock can make him. “Thank you,” he says, blank-faced.

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest. “Only somewhat.”

 

Ah, short-lived, just like his ridiculous _plan_ , which Sherlock already seems to have clued into. And now what? Was he to make awful small talk with the world’s only consulting detective in the hopes he could somehow circle back to his ( _stupid bloody fucking_ ) plan?

 

_Fuck, this is a_ disaster. 

 

He walks back into the kitchen - slightly ( _very_ slightly) cleaner than yesterday - and pulls two mugs from the cupboard. “So,” he begins, keeping his voice light, “Mrs. Hudson says her sister is doing be-”

 

With a vicious growl, Sherlock throws himself into the foetal position on the sofa, his thrice-covered back to John, voice muffled. “Either say what you came here to say or _get. out._ ”

 

“Jesus bloody-” John huffs and rubs his palm across his brow. What was it his mum always said - _If you want to make God laugh, make a plan_?“Scotch.”

 

Sherlock’s head rises, but doesn’t turn. “What?”

 

“The scotch,” John bites out, gesticulating pointlessly, “the ridiculously expensive stuff from the Black Widow case, have you still got it?”

 

Sherlock makes a disgusted sound in the back of his throat and grumbles into the sofa-back, “I assume you mean the Edwina Black case. _Black wid-_ ” he cranes his neck (in a way that looks ridiculously uncomfortable) to glare at John over his bony shoulder, “I don’t understand your need to _name_ our cases, let alone stylize said unnecessary titles.” He turns back to the sofa with a dramatic huff. “What’s the _purpose_?”

 

“Well, what should I call it?” John says, slightly louder than strictly necessary. He grits his teeth in an effort to control his volume. “Maybe something like, ‘the one where Edwina Black murders all of the nurses her late husband flirted with while in hospital dying of cancer, which turned out to actually be long-term poisoning inflicted upon him by the Munchhausen-by-Proxy-riddled Edwina Black herself’, yeah?” He throws a (mildly winded) glare over his shoulder. “Wouldn’t exactly fit on the title margin, would it?”

 

“Mm, certainly not,” Sherlock mumbles. “Besides,” he says, _deigning_ to sit up on the sofa like a human person, “if you’d titled it that, there’d be no need for the rest of the post.” His lip - the improbably shaped top one - curls in a sneer. “And what _ever_ would your fan club do without your over-romanticized and under-proofread blog updates?”

 

John turns around and narrows his eyes at the stroppy detective. “Do you have the scotch or not.”

 

Sherlock stares at him for a moment, and John stares back, hoping his poker face is better than it was when he gambled away half his savings at university. Sherlock clenches his jaw for a half-second, and John doubts he’s got any poker face at all. “Second cupboard, left of the sink,” Sherlock intones. “Top shelf. Let me know if you need a step stool.”

 

“Funny,” John says under his breath, reaching for the bottle. It’s a bit of a stretch, and he has to coax the bottle forward with the very tips of his fingers, cursing the Holmes name the whole time. When he brings down the bottle (as well as two tumblers he himself had bought, but couldn’t bring himself to take with him upon Sherlock’s… disappearance), he pours himself two fingers. “Ice for you?” he enquires, eyes on the steady flow of bitter amber liquid.

 

“You are entirely transparent.”

 

_Aaaand there’s God’s laughter_. John schools his face into his most innocent expression and glances over at Sherlock. “What?” he asks mildly.

 

Sherlock raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “You think plying me with spirits will - what do they say - _soften my tongue?_ ”

 

John pours himself another finger. “ _Loosen_ your tongue,” he corrects. “Nothing could _soften_ that silver bloody thing.”

 

“The melting point of Silver, atomic number 47, is 961.8 degrees C.”

 

John scoffs and turns around with a smirk. “Care to put your head in the oven, then?”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes, and John wonders how his face hasn’t gotten stuck like that yet. “Idiot. Our oven doesn’t go up to 962 degrees.”

 

“96 _1.8_ ,” John says turning back round to flip the kettle off, “and it’s _your_ oven, not ours.” He moves the mugs back to the cupboard, ignoring the heavy silence from the sofa. “Remember?”

 

When he doesn’t get a response for another ten seconds, John looks over his shoulder. Sherlock is staring stonily out the window into the indefatigable mists of London. “Yes, of course,” he says a moment later. “Slip of the tongue.”

 

John feels like a prat for about two seconds, before remembering it was Sherlock who had made a prat of him. “Ice for you?” he asks again, tone bland and cold.

 

Sherlock doesn’t look at him. “No.”

 

John pours Sherlock two fingers and fits both tumblers precariously into his right hand, grabbing the bottle with his left. He walks slowly into the sitting room, eyes on the tumblers and sets them onto the coffee table, one sloshing liquid over the lip of the glass. Sherlock reaches for the slightly spilt one and takes a demure sip while John settles himself into the red armchair.

 

“Oi,” John says, once he has his leg in a comfortable position, “drink up.” He makes a vague gesture to Sherlock’s glass. “S’only medicinal if you knock it back.”

 

Sherlock scowls but takes the drink in one quick pull. “Is that your opinion as a doctor?” he asks, voice slightly gravelly.

 

John shakes his head once. “No, my father’s opinion as a drunk,” he responds, knocking his own glass back.

 

Sherlock sets his glass on the table and leans back. “Mm. Sounds charming.”

 

“He wasn’t,” John says with a bitter smile as he unscrews the bottle cap. “But he wasn’t always wrong either. Another?”

 

A roll of the eyes. “You’ll pour me one regardless.”

 

“Good deduction.”

 

Sherlock peers at him as he pours another for each of them, and John can almost feel his quizzical gaze burning into John’s forehead. “This isn’t going to work.”

 

John doesn’t miss a beat. “Of course, it is,” he says gamely.

 

“No, it isn’t,” Sherlock huffs, rolling his shoulders forward. “A bit of alcohol-induced camaraderie isn’t going to instigate some sort of mass upwelling of years-old secrets on my part-”

 

“Last time we were drunk, you told me about the time Mycroft caught you dissecting a cat penis,” John interrupts.

 

Sherlock’s back straightens and he says defensively, “Perfectly legitimate scientific experiment.”

 

John raises an eyebrow. “Your microscope was broken, and he came upon you with your face barely a centimeter from the thing.”

 

“Feline vas deferens are remarkably tiny,” Sherlock shrugs.

 

And there’s his opening. “Speaking of-”

 

“Oh, for _god’s_ sake _-_ ”

 

“-have you had a check-up recently? A physical, I mean-”

 

“I know what you mean-”

 

“Make sure everything’s in working order down there?” John asks, peering over his glass at Sherlock as he takes a long swallow. The liquid burns his parched throat.

 

The detective’s face goes impenetrably blank. “This is not open for discussion.”

 

“I’ll pour you another,” John says, grasping the bottle.

 

Sherlock crosses his arms petulantly. “I won’t drink it.”

 

“Yes, you will,” John says and smirks at Sherlock while he pours it.

 

Sherlock stares at him with the face of a child being told to eat his veg lest he be denied dessert. John stares right back and sets the bottle down, deliberately setting the cap on the table next to it. Sherlock eyes the cap for a moment, slightly dilated pupils oscillating between the cap and the bottle, before reaching forward and grabbing his glass. He downs the shot in one swallow and sets the cup back on the table with an unnecessary thunk. John tentatively raises his eyebrows, but Sherlock only sits back, crosses his arms, and glares at John, face taught with churlish defiance.

 

John sighs and leans forward. “If you can’t tell me,” he says and refills his own glass, “who can you tell?” He pours another for Sherlock and takes his own glass in hand, leaning back in the seat and swirling the liquid with a slow sway of his wrist. “You make a new best friend on your little-” he keeps his eyes on the hypnotic vortical flow of the scotch “- _trip_?”

 

Sherlock stares flat-faced at his glass, eying the side where the alcohol residue is already growing tacky. “No one,” he says, and John frowns, unsure which question suits the detective’s answer. Sherlock meets John’s quizzical stare, and his jaw sets in a hard line. “I can tell no one.”

 

John might’ve pitied anyone else who said something like that. Hell, he might have even pitied _Sherlock_ , had he said it two years ago. But _now_ … now, John is just tired. 

 

“You know,” John begins, then pauses to knock back the scotch. He harrumphs once, his eyes stinging slightly, before continuing, “you make it _really_ difficult to care about you.”

 

He looks Sherlock dead in the eyes as he says it, and he notices the man’s face make an almost imperceptible wince before going blank again. Sherlock sniffs once and brings the glass to his lips. “Caring is not an advantage,” he murmurs and tilts his head back to take the shot.

 

John grimaces; he knows a Mycroftian edict when he hears one. “Bollocks,” he says, glowering when Sherlock stares dumbfounded over the rim of his empty tumbler. “You jumped off a roof to save my life,” he continues, his jaw tightening and hands clenching unbidden. He nods once with a downward curl of his lip and looks down at his glass. “There’s a part of me that hates you for it, might never forgive you, but…” he breathes once, twice, “I meant what I said,” he continues, peering up at Sherlock, still frozen in position. “You’re still my best mate. And you did…” he licks his lip and nods again, “You did save my life.” _Though you ruined it a bit, too. More than a bit, actually._

 

Sherlock seems to have heard John’s mental addendum as he winces again. Then he slowly lowers his glass, lips bitten between his teeth, and slides the tumbler towards John, who quickly refills it. Sherlock picks up the glass and stares into it, though John suspects he isn’t really seeing it. After a brief silent moment, Sherlock’s takes a quick breath, and his head pops up. “Astronomy,” he says, then downs the drink.

 

“A-… stronomy,” John says blank-faced.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock says, voice thick from the burning alcohol.

 

John frowns and shakes his head. “What’s astronomy got t-”

 

“I was quite well-versed in it, as a child,” Sherlock interrupts, his eyes drifting back over to the window. John frowns some more and opens his mouth to protest, but thinks better of it at the distant look in Sherlock’s glassy eyes. “I had wanted to be a- a _pirate_ ,” Sherlock says, raising a self-deprecating brow. “Mapping the skies was of nearly as much import to pirates as mapping the continents,” he swallows. “I became quite obsessed, so Mycroft tells me.” John’s eyes narrow, but he keeps mum as Sherlock carries on. “Drawing star charts, making little mobiles of the solar system - sans Pluto, of course, any idiot could see it was nothing more than an ice-covered celestial dwarf.” John smirks a bit at that, and Sherlock smiles a tiny, sad little thing, before his face goes taut. “On my eleventh birthday, I…” he trails off uncharacteristically, and it sets John’s teeth on edge. “Apparently, I-” the detective clears his throat, “- _experimented_ in an area of.. human biology, which I…” he purses his lips, “which I hadn’t before explored.”

 

John feels his face scrunch up as he tries to translate from Sherlockese to English. He blinks once, twice, three times. “You masturbated.”

 

Sherlock’s jaw clenches. “Yess.”

 

John blinks again and shakes his head once. _Christ’s sake._ “You know that’s fine, right?” he enquires, then looks down at his hands with an awkward shrug. “Expected, even.”

 

“I have no recollection of the event.”

 

John’s head snaps up. “What?”

 

Sherlock turns back to John for a moment, his mercurial eyes seeming to look through him, before settling on the empty tumbler before him. “I woke up early the following morning,” he says, soft and toneless, “drenched in sweat, teeth chattering. And, above my head…” he cranes his neck back and peers at the oblong spot of mould directly over the sofa. “Above my head was a mobile,” he murmurs, eyes darting about the ceiling. “Little styrofoam balls of different sizes and colours. A bright yellow one in the center. I-” he tucks his chin into his chest and bites his lip, “I stared at it for minutes - maybe hours - just… wondering what it was, and how it had got into my room.” John feels his jaw go slack and cannot bring himself to interrupt as Sherlock continues, “I became frustrated and… and I got up, walked to the window,” the detective glances out into the foggy afternoon again. “The sky was still dark, but with these.. tiny points of light, in the distance… I wondered at them, too.”

 

John waits an indeterminable amount of time, assuming - hoping - there’s more. But Sherlock is silent, and his silver eyes are fixed on the dusty windowpane, and John’s thoughts are whirring so quickly that he barely even notices that his plan has worked, and… _tiny points of light_?

 

“You…” John starts, then stops with a sudden gusty exhale. His eyes close before he realises, and he snaps them back open, fixing a disbelieving stare on the detective. “You deleted astronomy,” he continues. “The first time you-” Sherlock makes a face at the window, “you _deleted.._ astronomy.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes flick towards John’s but don’t meet them. “Yes.”

 

John shakes his head. “I-…” a compulsive swallow, “I don’t understand.”

 

The detective huffs a bitter laugh. “Neither did I. Neither _do_ I,” he corrects, pursing his lips in irritation.

 

John scoffs before he can think better of it. “That must be hard to admit,” he says, and winces the second it’s uttered. “Shit, sorry.”

 

Sherlock turns to John and raises an unperturbed eyebrow. “Perfectly fine. It _is_ hard to admit. Or it _was_.” He bites his lip again, and John’s stomach flutters ominously as Sherlock continues, “It’s something I’ve since come to-” he grits his teeth, and John is surprised either of them have any enamel left, “- _accept_ ,” he finishes, his face scrunching up at the foul taste of the word.

 

John notices, of a sudden, that his head is shaking side to side of its own accord. He notices a moment later that, plan or no, he was _not at all prepared for this_. “Sherlock-”

 

“Mycroft and I used to summer with our grand-mère in the south of France.” 

 

John’s jaw clicks shut, and he blinks several times. He may as well be watching Arsenal v. Tottenham for all the change in direction. “O-oh?” he stammers out.

 

Sherlock nods. “Yes. It was…” he smiles slightly, both wistful and wry, “Well, even to someone who is generally unable to appreciate conventional beauty-”

 

“You?” John interrupts, and Sherlock rolls his eyes in an oddly fond way.

 

“Me, yes. Even to _me_ , it was-” he tilts his head thoughtfully, “…not unpleasant. Well, aside from the fact I was always accompanied by Mycroft, who embodies unpleasantness, of course.”

 

John’s lip quirks even as his face still shows his confusion. “Of course.”

 

Sherlock looks up at him again with something strange in his expression - pleading, perhaps? worry? _fear_? “We arrived in Hérault near the beginning of summer, when I was fifteen,” Sherlock begins, halting John’s ponderings. “Fortunately, Mycroft was only staying for a few days, as he’d already begun his-” he waves a flippant hand, “-silly career in government at that point.” Sherlock pauses for a beat, and his face softens, just slightly, “So long as I returned in time for supper, Grand-mère afforded me the freedom to explore as I saw fit. Thusly,” he takes a deep steadying breath, and John’s heartrate kicks up, “in an attempt to evade Mycroft - and also for scientific exploration, of course - I set out to… the caves of Demoiselles,” he says, his tone low and inauspicious. “The whole place was rather cluttered with tourists, and, in trying to avoid them, I ended up venturing into a rather… unsafe area. 

 

“The rock floor became quite slippy, jagged in places. I-…” the detective swallows, his eyes going a bit hazy, “I lost my footing and ended up hanging by my fingers over a twenty foot drop into what, I presume, were some.. rather deadly stalagmites.”

 

John’s eyes widen, and he falls back in his seat. “Jesus.”

 

“Yes, it was-” Sherlock sniffs once, “…worrisome.” 

 

_Wanker_. “Terrifying, more like,” John corrects.

 

“Mm,” Sherlock peers up at him for a second and tilts his head in mild acquiescence, “I rarely experience fear, but it was… quite uncomfortable. I clung to the rock face for four minutes and seventeen seconds before someone grasped me about the shoulders and pulled me up.”

 

“Christ.”

 

“Yes, I was rather… shaken. As was-” Sherlock’s mouth closes so quickly, it seems he may have bit his tongue. His eyes oscillate side to side, and John leans forward in his seat, his left hand sliding across the table. The detective’s eyes zero in on John’s weathered palm, and he stares, lost for a moment inside his head. John opens his mouth to speak, but holds his tongue as Sherlock slides his glass forward into John’s hand. John looks down at it, bemused, before grabbing the bottle and pouring another two fingers for Sherlock.

 

They’re nearing the dregs of the small bottle now, some four hundred quid straight down the hatch. But Sherlock seems lost in his own memory, and John is riveted, spellbound, rooted to the spot. Sherlock takes the drink in a slow pull, flushed throat working as he swallows.

 

He sets the glass down, fingers trailing idly along the rim. “There was a man,” he begins, voice pitched only slightly above a whisper. “He saved me.” He stares into the bottom of the glass, and his eyes glisten. “The dripping from above had nearly soaked me through, and my hands were cut up from the rock. He - the man - he…” he takes several shallow breaths, and John clenches his finger round the armrests to keep himself in the chair. “… He hugged me,” Sherlock continues, “wiped my hands with his kerchief, wrapped me in his coat, and… held onto me for- several moments.”

 

John knows Sherlock both hates pity and is unable to distinguish it from empathy, so he attempts to school his face into indifference, though the look Sherlock gives him rather indicates he’s failed.

 

“Well, of course he did,” John says carefully, “I- … I would have done, as well.”

 

The detective lances John with a stare, then his eyes shift ever so slightly past John’s left shoulder as he speaks. “He was American, I think. Possibly Canadian. I- .. I don’t quite recall,” he says, and his tone is queer, as if he were talking in his sleep. “His hands were rough, like workman’s hands. He had a- a beard. Red, I think, though there wasn’t much light.” He brings his knees up to his chest one at a time and wraps them in spindly arms. “He was warm,” he says, voice dropping a quarter-octave, “and… his arms were strong.” 

 

It takes John a moment to place the detective’s expression - blank-faced but for the slight quirk in his brow, lips parted just slightly, eyes unfocussed. John sees an outstretched hand in his mind ( _but I will have the camera-phone, though — there’s nothing on it — I’ll still have it — I have to bring this back to Mycroft, you can’t keep it —_ please). He’d nearly asked Sherlock that day, _do you feel it? Does it hurt?_ He’s not sure now if he’s glad that he didn’t.

 

“He escorted me from the cave,” Sherlock says, and John tumbles through two miserable years back to the present, “walked me to the street. Put me in a petty-cab and paid the fare - far more than was necessary, but the cabbie didn’t mention as much,” John snorts with little humour, and Sherlock’s lips twitch. “When I returned to Grand-mère’s cottage, she had made bouillabaisse,” John frowns as Sherlock pulls his lower lip through his teeth, “my favourite.” John nods once, sending a silent _thank you_ to the woman who had got Sherlock to eat. “That night,” Sherlock murmurs, face tightening in that odd way that John now recognises as shame; it looks entirely out of place on Sherlock’s long face. “…That night, I thought of-… of _him_.”

 

John tilts his head to the side. “The man who saved you.”

 

A nod. “Yes.” 

 

“And you…?”

 

Another nod, though a bit reluctant. “Yes… I don’t remember.. _finishing_ , as it were.”

 

John’s eyebrows shoot up. “No?”

 

Sherlock jerks his chin to the side in a negative. “My first recollection is of.. _Mycroft…_ hauling me out of bed at six o’clock in the morning, demanding I be prepared for a suit fitting at eight.”

 

John huffs out a breath. “Rude awakening.”

 

“Terribly,” Sherlock shudders, and John quirks a smile. “But the situation became… worse.” John’s smile slides to a frown. “He dragged me into the kitchen for breakfast. Grand-mère was just returning from her morning constitutional, and suddenly,” a twitch of the stubbled jaw, “he started speaking gibberish.”

 

John feels his brow furrow, and he tips his chin up. “Mycroft?”

 

“Mm.”

 

“Well… He’s always talking gibberish, isn’t he?” he asks with a slight raise of his brow.

 

Sherlock smirks, but with little amusement. “Yes, which is why I paid him little mind, until.. Grand-mère… Well,” he sighs, “she was talking gibberish too.” 

 

John’s eyes move side to side for a moment, and he falls against the chair-back, shaking his head. “I don’t-”

 

“Silly, unrecognizable noises, nonsense words, only…” the detective’s eyes flutter in annoyance, “Only she stared at me as if I were meant to understand. As did Mycroft, come to think, but obviously I cared less about him.” 

 

John runs through medical texts in his head - certainly not as extensive as Sherlock’s archive, but nothing to scoff at, nevertheless. He glances up at Sherlock quizzically, “Acute aphasia?”

 

The detective peers up at him with a look of mildly pleased surprise. He drops his chin once in a nod. “My thoughts as well, at the time. But, no. Worse.”

 

“ _Worse?_ ” John repeats.

 

The detective turns back to the window. “Recall that I understood Mycroft perfectly until Grand-mère returned.”

 

John sighs in exasperation - _what’s that got to do wi-_

 

Oh. 

 

_Oh._

 

“You deleted French.”

 

“…Yes.”

 

John’s eyes close, and he rubs a hand - pungent with spilt scotch - across his face. “You _deleted_ French. The entire language.”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock says, clearly annoyed at the repetition. He tilts his head and squints his eyes. “Suffice it to say, it was a rather odd summer-”

 

_Oh god, this is_ it _, this is-_ “So this is the pattern, then. You… you delete things mid-coitus.”

 

Sherlock tilts his head the other way, and his eyes dart from John’s glass to his own, arms pulling taut round his shins. “Two events can be anomalous. Three constitutes a pattern.”

 

John thinks for a moment — _thrice, twice more than once, once more than twice, a veritable_ triptych _of—_ “When you were nineteen.”

 

A sombre nod. “Mm.”

 

“Is that why you tried again? To… determine the pattern?”

 

Sherlock’s lips downturn for a second. “No idea. Though I suspect as much.”

 

_No idea?_ “How can you have no idea?”

 

The detective’s back goes straight, and his face pinches, though whether it’s in irritation at himself or John, John doesn’t know. Sherlock harrumphs once, “Because I have no recollection of the week of the fifteenth through the twenty-first of August, 1996. The morning of the twenty-second being when I awakened in my bedroom with-” he makes soft glottal sound of mild disgust, “enough evidence to deduce what I had done the night before.”

 

John closes his eyes around a shudder at that, then he shakes himself and peers up at Sherlock, face slack in surprise. “You lost a week? A full week?”

 

A twitch of the nose. “Deleted. Yes.”

 

John notices he’s leaned forward again and forcibly pulls himself back. His shoulders thud against the seat-back, and he puts an elbow on the armrest, fingertips running across his lip.

 

_Spontaneous deletion? That’s-_

 

No. Not spontaneous. _Mid-coitus_. Sherlock _deletes_ things - big things, _important_ things - whenever he-

 

Oh god. Oh _god_. The man isn’t _repressed_ \- of _course_ , he isn’t; Sherlock Holmes is perhaps the least repressed man on earth, he’s got no fear, no filter, no bloody _feelings_ \- no, of course he isn’t repressed, he’s _controlled_. For all the unhealthy habits and addictions he’s inflicted on his ‘transport’, he’s spent the last ten odd years _controlling_ them, subverting them into bloody _crime-fighting_ , of all things. And while it may not be the strongest alloy, Sherlock Holmes has a steel will, with intelligence nonpareil - and eidetic memory, at that - to match.

 

 No, he hasn’t repressed himself. He’s _controlled_ himself - his only protection over his most prized asset: his _mind._

 

And, of course, as with any Holmesian conundrum, the answer only spurs a thousand more questions. Namely: _why?_

 

John stands up so quickly that he goes a bit lightheaded and his leg spasms. _Damn my leg._ “Jeeesus Chr- Sherlock, this is… this could be-” he gesticulates wildly.

 

“It isn’t,” Sherlock interrupts, lowering his legs to the floor and leaning back against the sofa.

 

John glares at him, hands going to his hips. “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

 

Sherlock’s face scrunches up in the way that makes John want to clock him one. “Of course I do. You’re going to say _this could be seri_ -”

 

“This could be serious, Sherlock!” John interrupts, throwing his hands up and pacing - limping - the length of the coffee table. “This could be…” he rubs a hand over his face, “I dunno, some sort of synaptic disorder, or-or aneurysm - this could be mini- _strokes_ , for Christ’s sake!”

 

Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest and scowls at his empty glass. “It isn’t.”

 

John scoffs. “Really.”

 

“Yes.”

 

A lick of the lips. “And you know that for a fact, do you.”

 

“ _Yes_.”

 

John tilts his head back with an angry bark of laughter. “And have you got the brain scans to prove that?” he throws at Sherlock.

 

The detective rolls his eyes and shifts forward, elbows resting on his knees. “I am a genius who was diagnosed with sociopathic tendencies at seven years old, of course I have the brain scans - I have years and years and _years_ worth of stupid, pointless _brain scans_.” He falls back again. “I’m perfectly fine.”

 

John shakes his head spasmodically. _No, no, that doesn’t make s-_ “There has to be something, Sherlock, something’s got to be _wrong_ -”

 

Sherlock’s head snaps up, and his eyes are verdigris fire. “ _There is nothing wrong with me!_ ”

 

John takes an unconscious step back, calves bumping the armchair, as Sherlock’s jaw clicks shut. The detective blinks several times in succession, likely attempting to get ahold of himself, and John falls into the seat as if his strings have been cut.

 

He feels heavy and heartsick. And just a bit terrified. “…I didn’t mean-”

 

“I know what you meant,” Sherlock interjects, voice soft and low, “and I am telling you: there is. nothing. wrong,” he murmurs, eyes pinning John like a bug in a frame. Sherlock glances away, and John lets out a pent breath. “It isn’t a- _disorder_ , or a condition, or… a sodding gypsy’s curse,” he grits out and looks up at John, face flushed and open. “It’s… the way I am.”

 

John bites his lip, considering, then shakes his head once. “Let me see the scans.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed. “You won’t find anything that I - as well as an inordinate number of neurologists - missed.” He peers up at John, and the look on his face is so resigned and unfamiliar that John can barely hold in a gasp. “Let it _go_.” 

 

John shakes off the shock, the confusion, the _god-knows-what-else_ of this ridiculous situation, and glares determinedly at the man across from him. “Sherlock-”

 

“ _John._ ” A shiver climbs up John’s spine at the tone _—turn around and walk back the way you came—no, I’m coming in—just do as I ask—_ _“_ I want…” Sherlock trails off again, and John’s eyes itch at the miserable sight of him. “I want things to be - _normal -_ again. I want things to be… as they were before,” John clenches his jaw, and Sherlock turns his head away, “or as close as is possible, given the circumstances. This - _this-_ ” he makes a vague gesture to his own form, “-will pass. And- and when it does… I want us to carry on as- as before,” he turns glazed hollow eyes to John. “If that’s what you want.”

 

John leans an elbow against the armrest, fore and middle fingers resting on his temple.

 

_If that’s what you want._

 

No.

 

_Will you do this for me?_

 

No.

 

_Take my hand._

 

No.

 

_I don’t have friends; I’ve just got one._

 

No.

 

_That thing that you offered to do, that was… good._

 

No.

 

_How do you feel about the violin?_

 

No. Only…

 

Only John had never said no. Never _could_ say no. Not to Sherlock.

 

_Dinner?_

 

_Starving._

 

John scrubs a hand over his face, stubble catching on the roughness of his palm. “Yeah,” he says, and feels the churning in his stomach open up into a deep empty pit. “Yeah, that’s what I want, too.” _God help me._

 

Sherlock stares at him blank-faced for a moment, then nods once, chin pressing against his chest. “Good,” he says, glancing back out the window. “Then you need to forget this, delete it, just…” a wearied sigh, “let it go, John.”

 

Well. John supposes he’s let go of worse things. Terrible things. Unforgivable things. What’s another drop in the salty ocean of his wretched and reluctant forbearance?

 

“…Yeah. Yeah, alright. Okay.”

 

John recalls the night he shot Jeff Hope to save Sherlock Holmes - not from the cabbie, but from himself.

 

_You’re an idiot._

 

At least, in that way, he and Sherlock are just alike.

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, this one was *hard*. Doing the best I can on weekly updates. Thanks to everyone who left kudos, comments, and bookmarks - you guys make this all worth while!
> 
> You might have noticed the decrease in levity, so I'll warn you now, it might be pretty heavy from here on out. Got some PTSD trigger warnings upcoming, though I'll be sure to warn you again before the fact.
> 
> As per usual, this is not beta'd or britpicked, so please notify and/or forgive me of any mistakes.
> 
> Thanks again, and stay tuned :)
> 
> Love,
> 
> Local xoxo


	4. Fleur-de-Lis Wallpaper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John stares at him for a second, just barely able to stifle his groan.
> 
> Oh god, but John knew it would come to this.

In a perfect world - which, John is all too aware, this _isn’t_ \- he would never, ever, _ever_ have to see, hear, or speak to Mycroft Holmes again.

 

Mycroft Holmes, who had made a valiant (and utterly failed) attempt to terrify John the first time they’d met, who had made _John_ (of all people) tell Sherlock he could never see Irene Adler again, who had sold his little brother’s secrets to the most powerful psychopath in the world, who had stood ten paces behind the mourners at Sherlock’s funeral and checked his watch compulsively.

 

Indeed, were this a _perfect_ world, John would never come within ten feet of Mycroft _Bloody_ Holmes again.

 

Of course, as it stands…

 

“… not one of your little rats, Mycroft, and I’ll not be treated like one-” comes Sherlock’s truculent baritone. John pauses on the fifth stair, the sixth being the squeaky one.

 

_Oh god, please, don’t let him be here. Let him be on the phone, let him be video-conferencing from bloody Buckingham Palace, let him be_ anywhere _else but-_

 

“Sherlock, this is _important_. This _matters_. We are not discussing t-”

 

_Fuck._ That tone - just that same combination of exasperated and nonchalant that John remembers. _Fuck._

 

“Yes, we are,” he hears Sherlock interrupt, “and it’s immaterial.”

 

John steps from the fifth stair to the seventh, his leg twingeing hip to ankle.

 

“It is _not_. Any of my operatives would tell you so, and most of them weren’t in-”

 

“As far as I am concerned, the mission is accomplished. I’ll have no further part, whatsoever. Now, _get_. _out_.”

 

“… Sherlock-”

 

“Get _out_!”

 

John is at the landing now, clandestinely hovering at the cracked door. He knows he should be bothered by Sherlock’s rudeness - from the stiff silence, it’s clear the elder Holmes is - but John can only smile vindictively at Mycroft’s upset.

 

“… I am _trying_ ,” Mycroft begins, in a horribly strained tone, “…to _help_ you.”

 

Sherlock makes a bitter, ugly laugh. “Into an early grave, perhaps?” he says, combatively. “Haven’t you tried that already?”

 

John knows his cue when he hears it.

 

“He can do that bit on his own,” John says, pushing the heavy door open. He takes a moment to place his coat on the hook and straighten his jumper before turning to the sofa to peer at Sherlock - who has just enough sense to look chastised - and then (reluctantly) at Mycroft, who stands before the coffee table looking exactly the same as when John had last  ~~hated~~ seen him. “Hello, Mycroft,” John says, blank-faced.

 

Mycroft’s face shifts into that grotesque political smile of his. “Dr. Watson. A pleasure to see you again.”

 

John folds his arms over his chest, jaw jutting out. “Is it.”

 

Mycroft raises his eyebrows. “Very much so,” he says, glancing pointedly at Sherlock before turning back to John. “Perhaps _you_ can make my brother see reason.”

 

“Mycroft,” Sherlock intones, settling himself more comfortably into the sofa. He peers up at Mycroft leaning casually on his brolly. Sherlock gives him a dark look and rumbles, “ _Kettle_.”

 

Mycroft raises an aloof eyebrow, but otherwise remains impassive.

 

John looks back and forth between the brothers, apparently having one of their usual silent standoffs. He rolls his eyes, then glances to the kettle steaming in the kitchen; through the clear bit on the side, he sees the water bubbling, but not yet boiled. His brow furrows, and he looks back at Sherlock and Mycroft, who continue staring one another down for another moment, before Mycroft blinks several times and looks up at John with a tight smile.

 

John rolls his eyes again and shifts his weight. “Right, well. I think we all know I can’t _make_ Sherlock do anything. So.”

 

The elder Holmes’ face shifts to surprise, an expression John is sure he’s never seen on the British Government. He stares at John for a moment, slightly bewildered, then huffs an odd sort of laugh. John frowns and is just opening his chapped mouth to comment when Sherlock’s head snaps up.

 

The dark look of before has gone lethal now, and he growls, “ _Mycroft-_ ”

 

The kettle goes off with a resounding click, and Mycroft stares at Sherlock, blank-faced but for the arch in his brow. John stifles another eyeroll, grits his teeth as he suddenly feels a migraine coming on, and uncrosses his arms. “S’pose I’ll get it, then,” he grumbles as he heads toward the kitchen. “For three, yes? Black for you, Mycroft?”

 

Mycroft smiles apologetically, “Thank you, but-”

 

“Mycroft was just leaving,” Sherlock says, diction clicking and hissing. Mycroft’s head snaps to his brother, lips pinched.

 

“Ah,” _There_ is _a god._ John says, stepping back into the sitting room. He looks back and forth between the brothers and nods. “Gotta save the world then, have you?” he asks, not bothering to soften the sarky edge of his tone.

 

“Or blow it up,” Sherlock mumbles, glaring into an empty mug on the coffee table.

 

Mycroft smiles more like a wince. “Rather depends on what I’ve had for tea.”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes and pulls his legs up to his chest. “Well, I’ve not got any cake in, so,” he flutters a nonchalant hand. “Off with you.”

 

Mycroft’s lips pinch even tighter making him look like a flesh-coloured sucker fish, and John smirks. The suit-clad man - olive green with a brown cable tie, _ugh_ \- inclines his head and nods once to John before slowly making his way to the door, tucking his silly umbrella under his arm. He stops with his fingers round the handle, his head tilting slightly to the side.

 

His tone is soft and calm, but oddly commanding. “We aren’t finished, Sherlock.”

 

The detective glares at his brother’s back for a second, before turning his scowl once more to the hapless tea cup. “We _most_ assuredly _are_ ,” he says, voice pitched low and deadly, “finished.”

 

John’s eyebrows raise at the finality of the statement, and he glances over at Mycroft, whose shoulders seem a little lower than they were a moment ago. “For what it’s worth,” he begins, back still turned, “I _am_ s-”

 

“Nothing,” Sherlock interrupts, tone bland and matter-of-fact. “It’s worth… nothing.”

 

Mycroft peeks over his shoulder at that. John follows his gaze to Sherlock’s face, blank but for the blush high on his cheekbones and the sheen just below his hairline. John looks back at Mycroft just in time to see his eyes flick open. “Afternoon,” he says faux cordially, and disappears from the flat.

 

John turns to Sherlock as the door clicks shut. He waits until he hears the door downstairs close forcefully, followed by a twittering from Mrs. Hudson, and raises an eyebrow at the detective. “Good to know some things never change.”

 

“Mm,” Sherlock responds absently, steepling his fingers over his lips.

 

John stares at him, noticing the slightly hunched set of his shoulders - similar to Mycroft’s defeated posture of a moment ago. He seems ( _they_ seem) … _older_ , John thinks. Older than these mere two years should have made them. 

 

Then again, John feels about a hundred, so he resolves not to worry about it.

 

He tilts his head to the door, indicating the place where the British Government had stood a minute past. “Bit harsh,” he says with a smirk, mostly to get a rise out of Sherlock, who still seems to be about a thousand miles away.

 

Sherlock doesn’t take the bait, doesn’t even turn his head when he murmurs distractedly, “ _Harsh_ is my default.”

 

John snorts. “Truer words.”

 

Still staring vaguely into the middle distance, jaw tensing and relaxing in short intervals, Sherlock makes a grunt of agreement. He lowers his twitching fingers to his knees.

 

Alright, so maybe John’s a bit worried now. He eyes the detective for a moment, then takes a cautious step forward. “You alright?” he asks, trying - and likely failing - to curb the concern in his tone.

 

Sherlock blinks thrice, looking up at John as if just noticing him, and frowns in irritated confusion. “Quite,” he says, as if this were perfectly obvious.

 

John nods once, then closes his eyes and shakes his head. “You seem-” he falters at the slight narrowing of Sherlock’s eyes, “-I dunno,” he shrugs. “Wired, I suppose.”

 

Sherlock scowls. “ _Wired._ ”

 

“Agitated,” John clarifies.

 

“I’m not,” Sherlock says defensively, pulling together the lapels of his tightly cinched dressing gown. He’s foregone the jimjams and sheet today, and - though John refuses to look closely enough to check - likely the pants as well.

 

John raises his hands. “Okay, alright. Just…” he shakes his head, “just seemed like you might be. Sorry.”

 

The detective clenches his jaw, turning his head to the window in dismissal. John sighs, suddenly nostalgic for the days when Sherlock would talk his bloody ear off about some random (and usually disgusting) experiment or other. It had annoyed John to no end back then, but now…

 

John is different now. And so, it seems, is Sherlock.

 

John licks his lip, nodding to himself, and pivots on his heel to head toward the kettle. He pulls two mugs from the cupboard, pointedly ignoring the sink, where the phials of blood from the day before yesterday have not only coagulated but seem to have congealed into a sickeningly black and oddly flaky paste. He suppresses a shudder and grabs two teabags at random.

 

While not steaming anymore, the water is still hot enough to siphon the colour from the herbs almost instantly, and within thirty seconds, the tea is nearly dark enough to obscure the bottom of the cups. He stirs two lumps of sugar into Sherlock’s mug and lets his gaze settle on the blood in the sink, inky and viscid like rotted pith. 

 

Though John fully acknowledges the futility of it, he can’t help but wish that anything else in his life were as simple as making a quick brew. 

 

He pulls the bags from the mugs and drops them into a saucer, before settling his hands on the edge of the countertop. He takes in the ringing silence of the flat and hates it. “Sherlock-”

 

“It isn’t passing.”

 

John turns around and finds the detective perched on the edge of the sofa, hands under his chin pressed together nearly as tightly as his knees. John thinks he sees a slight tremble in Sherlock’s jaw.

 

He steps into the sitting room, settling his hip against the red armchair. “Passing?” he enquires with a slight frown.

 

Sherlock purses his lips for a moment and nods. “Usually the necessary period between-” he swallows once, “ _diversions_ , gets longer into the second week. Symptoms dissipate quickly in these final fews days.” 

 

John’s eyes go a little wide, and he clears his throat. “But…?”

 

Sherlock clenches his jaw once, twice. “I am… _struggling.._ to divert it. And the period of-” a resigned breath, “- _flaccidity_ is-” John flinches; Barouk’s lechers hadn’t prepared him for that one, “shortening.” Sherlock makes an irritated huff, “Contrary to ten years of pre-established data.”

 

John stares at him for a second, just barely able to stifle his groan.

 

Oh god, but John _knew_ it would come to this.

 

He takes a long, calming breath, and when that doesn’t stave off the hot writhing in his gut, he takes three more and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, Sherlock is looking at him as if worried he might spontaneously metamorphose into a giant butterfly (Sherlock _hates_ lepidoptera with a passion that would shock most people - _bloody larvae, devouring evidence like Mycroft with a brioche!_ ).

 

John shakes himself; neither the image of festering moth spawn, nor the image of the British Government glutting himself on desserts, is going to help John in the least. No, it’s _Mary’s_ image he needs. He summons her voice in his head: _Dr. Watson, you’ve got a patient in exam room 6, sounds like priapism, possibly idiopathic — thank you Mary, still good for cinema tonight, yeah?_

 

Yes. John can do this.

 

He clears his throat and marches up to the coffee table, ignoring the way Sherlock edges back into the sofa. He sets his jaw and calls up his most authoritative tone. “Lie down.”

 

Sherlock raises a dubious brow. “…Why.”

 

“You need a check-up. Lie down, on your back.”

 

A (patented) roll of the eyes. “John, I-”

 

John settles himself on the coffee table, his knees a scant few inches from Sherlock’s, and begins rolling up the sleeves of his jumper. “Look, I let you get away with not showing me the brain scans,” he says reasonably. “I’ve accepted that I can’t help you with the disease-”

 

“It isn’t a-”

 

“-but I might be able to stop the symptoms getting worse,” he says over Sherlock’s demurral. “ _Priapism_ -” he raises an eyebrow at the other man’s visible flinch, “-is still a very real possibility. Therefore: Sherlock Holmes, I am your doctor. _Lie_. _Down_.”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes yet again, but manoeuvres his legs onto the sofa, sneering, “Yes, _Captain_.”

 

John suppresses a slight shiver at that; while he’d never required the propriety of the appellation from his brothers in arms, he had, in fact, always liked being called _Captain_. Of course, leave it to Sherlock to use that against him.

 

He glares at Sherlock, who only smirks at the ceiling in response. Shaking his head, John brings his fingers - cool, dry, and clinical - to the detective’s throat, pressing lightly in several spots. “…Hmm. Pulse is still quite elevated,” he murmurs and brushes the back of his other hand across Sherlock’s forehead. “Fever’s not gone down. Pupils are…” he leans in close to the detective’s face, and Sherlock pointedly does not meet his eye, “…almost completely dilated, Christ.” He tips Sherlock’s head back, placing his middle finger and thumb near the hinges of the man’s jaw. “Glands still fine. Breathing’s erratic, but-” he places one hand on Sherlock’s sternum, the other moving across his ribcage, “-take a deep breath for me, hold. Good. Lung function’s fine, miraculously.”

 

Sherlock lets out a gust of breath, slightly minty with an edge of fluoride. He scowls, “Miraculously?”

 

John huffs a laugh as he looks up Sherlock’s nose briefly, then encourages his mouth open and peers into the back of his throat. “You’ve been smoking like a chimney, don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

 

John lets go of Sherlock’s jaw, and the detective scowls harder. “I am in no way like a _chimney_.”

 

John snorts at that one and takes a fine-boned wrist in his hand. “You smell like smoke, burn anything that comes near you, and are full of hot air. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you _were_ a chimney.”

 

Sherlock huffs and goes back to glaring at the ceiling. “Hence why _I_ am the consulting detective.”

 

“Mm,” John murmurs. He sits back for a moment, trying to convince himself he isn’t stalling for time, then realises it’s an argument he’s unlikely to win. With another soft harrumph and an unconscious lick of the lips, he sits forward. “I’m going to open your robe now.”

 

“Obviously.”

 

Alright. Okay. He can do this. He’s _going_ to do this.

 

… 

 

Christ on a kipper, he _cannot_ do this. He really, really, most definitely can _not_ -

 

Oh, for fuck’s sake, he’s a _doctor_. He can _do this_. Christ, it’s only _Sherlock_ -

 

\- ’s penis. It’s only _Sherlock’s. Penis._

 

Well, he’s seen Sherlock’s penis before. 

 

Right, ‘course. Like a half-second’s eye-full as the twat readjusts his ‘I’m-too-lazy-and-important-to-put-on-clothes’ sheet counts as having _seen Sherlock’s cock._

 

Don’t say cock. Don’t say cock. _Don’t. Say. Cock._

 

_…_

 

_…_

 

_Cock cock cockity cock cocky cocky cock cock-_

 

He pulls Sherlock’s robe open and settles it round the man’s narrow hips, staring intently at the fleur-de-lis wallpaper the whole time. He’s going to look down, he’s got to. He can’t diagnose a priapism if he doesn’t look down.

 

Nope. No. Not looking down. Good lord, Mrs. Hudson has taken exceptional care of this wallpaper since Sherlock was away-

 

_\- cock cockity cocking cocky cock -_

 

“ _Jeeesus_ , Mary, and Joseph.”

 

… Is that John’s voice? Oh, yes, it is. And he’s… _looking_ _down_.

 

“No, just my penis,” Sherlock says in a strained tone. John thinks he should look up at Sherlock’s face, make sure the patient is comfortable enough to continue the evaluation, only it’s like a train wreck - like a _ridiculously_ erect, visibly _pulsing_ , red nearly _purple_ , and ever so slightly _dripping_ train wre-

 

“Christ, Sherlock.”

 

“What did you expect.”

 

Expect? _Expect?_ The bloody Spanish Inquisition is what he _expected_.

 

“I- I don’t know! Just- … _ffffuck_.”

 

“Do you swear this much at all your patients?”

 

No. No, he doesn’t. Well, maybe here and there when he was stitching up blokes in Helmand, but never with civilians, never in England, and _never_ while anyone had their ( _throbbing, wet, hot-enough-I-can-feel-it-from-here_ ) _cock_ out.

 

Oh god. How is it, exactly, that Sherlock deletes things? Seems like it might come in _quite_ handy.

 

He still can’t draw his eyes away from the ( _monstrous_ ) thing, and his voice is almost entirely unrecognisable as he chokes out, “Sherlock, you _need_ t-”

 

“Any chance you’re well-versed in castration?”

 

John’s head turns to Sherlock at that, and he brings a palm to his ear, scrubbing over it. Sherlock is still staring intently at the ceiling, but his face has gone an interesting shade of pink that John’s never seen before, and his breath is coming in starts and stops.

 

John shakes his head. “Wh- Jesus, Sher-” he interrupts himself with a weary sigh, trying to regulate his heartrate lest he need to call in a doctor of his own. “There are a lot of things I would do for a friend, but cutting off your _bollocks_ isn’t one of them.”

 

“Ugh,” Sherlock groans and squints his eyes. “Then what exactly is the _point_ of friendship?”

 

John stares blankly at the underside of Sherlock’s chin for a moment, then snorts out a (mildly hysterical) laugh. 

 

Sherlock smirks. “Don’t giggle, John, it’s a check-up,” he admonishes, which only makes John snort again.

 

_Alright, okay_ , John thinks. With a self-assured nod, he turns his head back to… the task at hand.

 

While quite engorged, neither the shaft nor the head appear worryingly swollen. The colouring is the most concerning aspect, though, on second glance, it’s not quite as bad - certainly darker than is entirely usual, but not enough to indicate anything medically threatening. John peers a little closer, blindly placing his fingers on Sherlock’s wrist; Sherlock’s fingers curl inward for a second, brushing feather-light against John’s. 

 

The throbbing, most noticeable near the base of the shaft, is in time with Sherlock’s pulse. So, it’s unlikely to be anything that might cause sluggish bloodflow - sickle cell, leukemia, some cancers. Tilting his head to study the thick vein on the underside and the smaller vessels elsewhere, John can’t identify anything that might suggest a rupture or blockage. He taps Sherlock once on the calf, and the man lifts his legs, crooking them at the knee and setting his feet flat on the sofa. John shuffles over to look between his slightly parted thighs. He winces a bit at the testicles - pulled up tight to the other man’s body, the sparse black pubic hair doing little to hide them - and glances down to the shadowed perinaeum. He’s lightly furred there as well, but John can see clearly enough that there aren’t any bruises or signs of injury.

 

He nods to himself and looks back up at Sherlock.

 

There’s a definite tremble in the detective’s jaw now, and he seems to be swallowing compulsively. His eyes - glassy and slightly unfocussed - shift, likely following the shape of his favourite mould stain.

 

Sherlock knows what’s next.

 

John squeezes his eyes shut and grinds his teeth. _I am your doctor. I am your doctor._ “Alright,” he murmurs, opening his eyes. Sherlock doesn’t acknowledge him. “I’ll- I’ll be right back.”

 

John stands up slowly, putting as little pressure on his bad leg as possible. He endeavours not to look at Sherlock - spread out nude on the sofa with the blue silk dressing robe tucked in around him like a newly opened Christmas gift - but it’s quite hard.

 

_Difficult._ It’s quite _difficult_.

 

John shakes his head at himself, wondering when his maturity regressed to that of a twelve-year-old, and makes an awkward volte-face. He walks - _limps_ \- briskly to the hallway, glancing at the dust-covered door of Sherlock’s bedroom. Hoping against hope that Sherlock hasn’t disposed of (or run some ridiculous experiment using) his medical kit, he pushes into the bathroom. 

 

Yet again, the place is free of experiments, but - knowing what John knows now - he’s significantly less surprised. He crouches down with a grimace, and pulls open the cabinet under the sink. It’s ridiculously grimy - John’s surprised a puff of dust didn’t blow into his face like that time they’d broken into a crypt - but, otherwise, it’s just as John remembers it: a tube of toothpaste still in the box, a few bottles of Sherlock’s ridiculously expensive hair products, several rolls of toilet tissue, and - behind five or six spare beakers - John’s medical kit.

 

He drags the box - black and quite large - out onto the bathroom floor, the beakers clinking against one another. Pulling open the lid, he finds it just as well-stocked as the day he left, with bandages and plasters of all sizes and shapes, several different disinfectants (it had taken him a few tries to find one that didn’t irritate Sherlock’s skin), a box of latex gloves, suture needles and thread (though the spool seems a bit low), alcohol swabs, a pair of snips, tweezers, three scalpels, and… a small tube of surgical lubricant.

 

John bites his lip and pulls out the unopened lubricant; fortunately, Sherlock had never got up to anything so awful as to require a catheter, endoscopy, or nasogastric intubation - well, at least, not that John himself had had to administer. But now…

 

But now, _this._

 

John pulls his lip through his teeth hard enough to leave little indentations, then grabs two gloves and pockets the lube.

 

_Here goes._

 

He strides back into the sitting room, snapping the gloves round his wrists and pulling taut the latex over his right index finger. He glances down at Sherlock as he rounds the coffee table, clinically observing his long form, feet dangling off the sofa’s armrest. Sherlock looks up at him just as John pulls the lubricant out of his pocket and rolls his eyes, parting his legs and bending them up at the knee.

 

John looks away for a moment, attempting to afford Sherlock a bit of privacy while he arranges himself. When he looks back, Sherlock is yet again staring at the ceiling with a baleful scowl. John tips his head down. “Look, I’ll try to-” he shakes his head and starts again, “This shouldn’t hurt, alright? Tell me immediately if it does.”

 

Sherlock’s scowl deepens. “Can I tell you instead that my prostate is perfectly fine?”

 

John grits his teeth. “Did you go to medical school?”

 

Sherlock tilts his head and raises a querulous brow. “ _Well-_ ”

 

“Then shut up, and pull your knees back,” John mutters.

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes again, but grudgingly complies. “People will definitely talk.”

 

John snorts with little humour and settles himself on the floor next to Sherlock’s knee. He takes a short breath - _just another patient, just another exam_ \- and squirts a bit of the lube onto his right index and middle fingers. His left hand makes a fist around the two fingers, coating them liberally in the stuff. He’s done this about fifty times before - nothing to worry about.

 

And yet.

 

He gulps audibly, and Sherlock’s eye twitches. Without further ado (and without giving himself a chance to run out the front door, hyperventilating like he did when he’d been shot), he slips his arm under Sherlock’s raised knee and presses his fingers into the crease of Sherlock’s arse.

 

He patently ignores the soft gasp he hears, unsure if it was him or Sherlock who made it.

 

He presses his two fingers along the man’s perinaeum, feeling for any swelling over the slight outward curve of his prostate, before moving a bit further down.

 

He bites down hard on his tongue when his forefinger presses against the tight and puckered muscle a scant few centimetres below. Sherlock is pointedly silent, but John feels a slight twitch beneath the pad of his finger. He presses lightly around the ring for a moment - _just another patient, done this fifty times befo-_

 

John expels a short gust of breath. “Alright,” he tries to say, but it comes out as a hoarse whisper, and he tries again. “Alright. Relax for me, and take a deep breath,” he murmurs. Sherlock inhales deeply, and John can see the rise of his chest in his peripheral vision. “Good,” he says. “Now _slowly_ let it out.”

 

He watches the detective’s chest fall gradually, and bites his lip as he slowly presses his index finger forward.

 

There’s a slight contraction, a brief moment of resistance that John is used to. He keeps up a steady pressure, waiting, and…

 

_There._

 

His finger slides in to the first knuckle, and he breathes out through pursed lips.

 

_Oh god, oh my god, Jesus fucking oh my lord-_

 

Sherlock is still (thankfully) silent, and John wastes no time in sliding up to the second knuckle.

 

From off to his side, he hears Sherlock make a slightly strangled _hunhh_ , and he stills.

 

He finally turns to look at Sherlock, whose face is shiny with sea-glass eyes shifting minutely. “Alright?” he asks, voice gravelly.

 

Sherlock makes a jerky nod, eyes still glued to the ceiling. “Y-yes,” he rumbles, pitch dropped about a half-octave. “Yes, fine. Get on with it.”

 

John swallows and nods, turning to stare blankly at the sofa-back. “Alright,” he says, and presses his finger all the way inside. The passage is tight, as is the case with most of the men he’s examined, the inner walls soft and hot, pulsing ever so slightly in time with the man’s heart beat. He crooks his finger, searching. “Just.. got to.. find th-”

 

“ _Aahhh…_ ”

 

Before he can think better of it, John turns to glance at Sherlock, and-

 

_Fuck._

 

He’s never seen Sherlock like- didn’t know Sherlock even _could_ be- 

 

_Oh god, Sherlock._

 

John watches, more intently than he’s ever watched anything, as the center of Sherlock’s chest rises, slow and silent, his torso arching upwards, ribs protruding, neck elongating as the brunet head tips back, spine curving itself into a perfect bow. The sheen in his turquoise eyes has thickened nearly enough to spill in beads over his lashes, and his lips - bitten rosy - have parted, the tip of a pink tongue poking out between them. His eyelashes flutter, and the bright irises roll backwards as his long and sharply-defined face contorts in something… unnameable.

 

_Holy- …_ John has never seen Sherlock like this: arching and aching, trembling and clenching, yielding and burning and totally, utterly, ineffably, torturously _human._ He looks like- he’s- he’s- fuck it all, John can’t think of the word, but he’s… something.

 

Yes, indeed, he is _something_.

 

Fortunately, John knows this part by rote, and he finds himself unable to look away from the enthralling phenomenon of Sherlock’s stricken visage as he mutters, “No swelling. Any pain anywhere? Rectum, bladder-”

 

He watches as Sherlock’s mouth works once, twice, thrice before he grits out, “No. No, none. Just- stop. Stop please, I- I-”

 

John blinks several times in succession, back straightening and muscles tightening as if he’s just come out of a dream. “Okay,” he says, surprised at the steadiness of his tone. “Alright, relax,” he murmurs, then repeats it twice when Sherlock’s head starts to jerk side to side. John feels his eyes widen and pulls his finger from Sherlock’s body a little quicker than he normally would, stripping the gloves off and tying one inside the other. He shifts sideways towards the detective’s head, mindless of the jolt in his leg, and leans forward to place his fingers at the pulse-point on Sherlock’s lissome neck. “Sherlock?” he whispers, concern and a hint of fear straining his voice.

 

His pulse is rapid - _too_ rapid, unsustainably so - and Sherlock is panting. Suddenly, the arch of his back falls flat against the sofa, and his eyes glaze over entirely, moving back and forth as if deep in REM. His mouth works again, lips trembling as they shape silent words.

 

_Jesus Christ, what the fuck just happened._

 

“Sherlock?” he says, to no response. “ _Sherlock_ ,” he repeats, panic edging his tone. “Look at me. Look at _me_ , Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock’s jaw clicks shut before a pent grunt forces it open again. “I-I can’t- can’t,” he stammers, and John’s eyes go wide. “Oh, god, get me out. I can’t get out-”

 

John frowns, shaking his head in confusion. “Sherlock, what-”

 

“I can’t get out, John, _John-_ ”

 

John clasps Sherlock’s clenching hand. “I’m here. I’m here, just- your eyes, your eyes are-” _bloody freaking me out_ , he doesn’t say. The pupils, blown wide, still shift side to side - fast, so _fast_ , as if he were asleep, or in the throes of a nightmare, or wildly scanning through the presumably endless information stored in his-

 

John starts. _Mind Palace._

 

“ _John,_ get me _out_ , get me _out of here!_ ” Sherlock all but bellows, veins in his neck and forehead straining.

 

John squeezes his eyes shut, “ _Jesus Chr-_ ” and slaps Sherlock hard across the face.

 

The detective goes entirely still for a moment, eyes frozen, pupils contracting to pinpoints. John holds his breath for about ten seconds, then, “Sherl-” he starts, and falters when the man’s eyes roll back in his head and flutter closed as he slumps into the sofa.

 

John stares wide-eyed for a few seconds - possibly minutes - murmuring Sherlock’s name under his breath. He brings his fingers back to Sherlock’s throat - unsure of when he removed them in the first place - and counts his pulse, horrified but steady-handed as he mouths the numbers. It’s still a bit fast, but slowing even as John measures it, and the sheen on the detective’s face is already drying.

 

Attempting to rouse him, John pats Sherlock’s face once, twice, then pinches the inside of his elbow, Sherlock’s least favourite place to be touched. When he gets no response, he tries calling the man’s name a few more times to no avail. 

 

_Bloody fucking hell. I KO’d Sherlock Holm-_

 

Ding ding.

 

John flinches and looks about the room, hand sliding to the back of his trousers in search of the gun he no longer carries. Instead, his fingers brush over the bulge of his phone in his back pocket. He closes his eyes round a relieved sigh, and fishes out the device, clicking the screen on.

 

**_Mary Morstan_ **

_We still on, or…?_

 

John frowns and checks the time. Fuck. _Fuck._ He’s late. Again.

 

“Buggering-” he mutters and stands up too quickly, groaning at the painful popping in his knee. “Shit.”

 

He tucks his phone back into his pocket and looks down at Sherlock, looking for all the world as if he’s just had a rather nice shag.

 

No. No, that isn’t what happened. No.

 

… Is it?

 

_NO._

 

He shakes his head and pounds his temple thrice with the heel of his hand for good measure. Staring squarely at the wallpaper - hell, he’ll likely be _dreaming_ about that wallpaper after today - he pulls the edges of Sherlock’s robe over his prone form, swallowing once when the material shifts as Sherlock’s breathes slow and deep.

 

He glances at his watch, then back to Sherlock - whom he’s pretty sure he can’t deal with at _all_ right now - then back at his watch.

 

John sets his jaw. It’s not two years ago, and John’s not going to miss another date because of Sherlock Bloody Holmes - regardless of… whatever the fuck just happened.

 

He tries valiantly to shirk the leaden weight of his cowardice as he silently pulls the door closed behind him.

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, MAN.
> 
> I honestly don't even know what to say about this one, other than, maybe... sorry?
> 
> Next chapter should be up in a few days; it'll likely be quite a bit shorter than previous chapters.
> 
> As always, this is neither beta'd nor brit-picked, so please forgive me and let me know if there are any errors. There are likely a few in this chapter, as I only proofread it twice before posting cuz I wanted you all to read it as soon as possible!
> 
> Again, thanks to everyone who's supported me thus far - your kudos, comments, subscriptions, and bookmarks really do make my day! Please, please, keep them coming :)
> 
> Hope you're enjoying reading as much as I'm enjoying writing!
> 
> Love,
> 
> Local xoxo


	5. Three-Quarter Turn Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John swallows compulsively and steps silently towards the door, eyes stuck to Sherlock with the gravity of a small moon to an enormous planet.

John Watson has never understood Sherlock Holmes - not really. To do so, John’s always thought, would be like trying to recall one’s earliest memory or catch wisps of smoke between cupped hands; that is to say, even if one succeeded, the result would be meaningless - a tiny little component of the whole of the thing. Like knowing every meteorologic detail of an F5 tornado as it sweeps you up in its devastating gusts.

 

No, he’s never understood Sherlock. Which is fine, really. 

 

John’s always been a bit of a storm chaser.

 

—

 

_I had a date with Mary. J_

 

_I am aware. - SH_

 

_._

 

_.._

 

_I shouldn’t have left. J_

 

_I hardly noticed. - SH_

 

_._

 

_.._

 

_Are you alright? J_

 

_Of course. - SH_

 

_No. - SH_

 

_Wait. Of course or no? J_

 

_Of course I’m alright and, in answer to your next question, no I didn’t delete anything. - SH_

 

_Oh. J_

 

_Good. J_

 

_._

 

_.._

 

_…_

 

_I could come over tonight. Plans with Mary fell through. J_

 

_Busy. - SH_

 

_Doing what? J_

 

_._

 

_.._

 

_…_

 

_Doing what, Sherlock? J_

 

—

 

John finds himself standing outside Sherlock’s door two days after the (horribly botched) check-up. The door is closed and locked - which it hasn’t been since that first day John came to visit - and John thinks with a weary-faced grimace, _S’pose I deserve that._

 

He doesn’t bother knocking.

 

“Sherlock.”

 

No response. Unsurprising.

 

John sighs and stretches his arms to place his hands on either side of the doorframe. “ _Sherlock._ ”

 

A faint rustling of cloth, but still no response.

 

John runs a hand over his face. “Sherlock, I know you’re in there, so open up.”

 

Déjà vu. God, John _hates_ déjà vu.

 

Only, this time, no matter how many times John knocks or calls out, Sherlock doesn’t let him in.

 

—

 

John returns the next evening, to the same results. 

 

He won’t pepper the man with texts (which is what Sherlock would do), and he won’t slide an apology note under the door (which is just plain silly). But he thinks about it.

 

Yes, he thinks about it quite a bit.

 

—

 

On the third day in a row that Sherlock does not open the door for him, John finds himself leaning almost completely on his good leg (as his bad one is nearly entirely unable to support his weight anymore), with severely trembling hands (Mary, as well as Dr.’s Barouk and Chastain, had given him the side-eye all throughout his shift yesterday), and his forehead rests defeatedly on the cool, heavy door to Sherlock’s flat.

 

He should go. Sherlock isn’t going to let him in. Sherlock may never let him in again.

 

He really should go.

 

“John?”

 

John snaps to attention and spins around. His bad knee jars on the doorframe, and he nearly bites through his lip to keep from cursing in front of Mrs. Hudson - _Mr. Hudson would swear like a sailor, the horrid man, but I’d often just hum a little tune to block it out, hmm hm hm hmm hmm hm hmmmm -_

 

“John, dear, is that you up there?”

 

John closes his eyes and sighs, stepping gingerly to the edge of the landing. “Yes, Mrs. Hudson, it’s me.”

 

Her greying head pokes round the side of the bannister, and she smiles up at him broadly. “Oh, there you are dear - I was nearly on my way out.” She peeks round him to the door behind, still damnably shut. “Oh,” she says, lowering her voice to a whisper, “any luck with our Sherlock?”

 

John swallows and glances briefly over his shoulder. “Ah, no, not as yet, Mrs. Hud-”

 

“Oh, that’s a shame,” she interrupts, shaking her head, upturned licks of hair brushing over her ears. “Man like him all cooped up in there, it’s not the way of it, I tell you,” she murmurs to herself. John opens his mouth to speak, but she shakes her head as if clearing it and looks up at him with another bright smile. “Well. Perhaps a cup of tea before I’m off, dear?”

 

“Oh, er,” John blinks a few times and shifts his weight, knee still lancing pain up and down his leg. “No, I should probably-”

 

“I’ll just put the kettle on,” Mrs. Hudson says over his protest, quirking an expectant brow. “I’ve made a batch of scones to bring with me as well, but I’m sure my sister and I couldn’t possibly eat them all.”

 

John tips his head down. “Well, I-”

 

“And I’ve got in some of that darjeeling earl grey you like from that - oh, what’s it,” she says, snapping her fingers, “is it Waitrose, I think? Near Portman Square?”

 

John nods once with a forced smile. “Yes, that’s the one, I-”

 

She claps her hands together. “Then you’ll come and have a cuppa!” she calls gleefully and pivots about to scurry back into her flat.

 

“Ah-” John starts, then clicks his jaw closed, shaking his head, “-pparently.”

 

—

 

John had nearly - though not entirely - forgotten Mrs. Hudson’s ability to twitter on endlessly without ever actually _saying_ anything. Sitting across the table from her now, John can’t help but remember the occasion when he threw a (moderately heavy) medical text at Sherlock after he’d compared her to a talking bird with ‘all the irksome monotony of a parrot, at only half the mental capacity of one’. While John still thought that description to be a bit harsh, so was pelting Sherlock with his battered copy of the ICD-10. He wonders now if it’s too late to apologise for that.

 

He wonders now if it’s too late to apologise for a lot of things.

 

But, no. Sherlock hadn’t apologised for being _dead_ for a year and a half; why should John apologise for putting a tiny bump of a bruise on Sherlock’s forehead? A bruise which John himself had treated diligently with icepacks and lidocaine while Sherlock had complained endlessly about the horrid asymmetry John had inflicted upon his face, mind you.

 

No, John won’t apologise. John won’t apologise for _anything_ , not when Sherlock had made him watch his frantically flailing limbs, his unstoppable descent, his dead grey eyes, his head - the container of that ridiculous beautiful brain and everything that made Sherlock the miracle of a human being that he was - _smashed_ _open_ on the rain-slick pavem-

 

“You know…” Mrs. Hudson’s voice cuts through the viscera of John’s ( _worst_ ) memory, and he looks up at her thoughtful face, his own blotted with shame and a touch of delirium. “Well,” she huffs, seemingly oblivious of his inner turmoil, “Mycroft had told me not to, but… er-”

 

John frowns and snaps to full attention. “Mycroft told you not to what?” he asks, frowning harder when his usually ebullient ex-landlady bites her lip in worry. “Mrs. Hudson?”

 

She shakes her head in an uncertain negative then squeezes her eyes shut and says with the thrust of a fist, “Oh, blast it!” She reaches into the breast pocket of her grey flannel dress and fishes something out, grabbing John’s hand and placing the item into his palm. “Here,” she says and leans away as if to stop herself taking it back.

 

John looks down, and in his hand are three small keys on a ring. They’re warm to the touch - likely from resting so close to Mrs. Hudson’s chest - and are of varying shapes and lengths, though all are shiny and new. John feels a furrow etch into his brow as he looks at them.

 

“I’ll be out in the country for a little while,” Mrs. Hudson says from across the table. John nods absently, eyes still settled firmly on the keys. “Not on holiday, mind,” she continues. “No, my brother by law, well, he’s gone on one of his - er, _sabbaticals_ , I call them - and my sister, you see, she’s quite distraught, silly girl. I tell her every time, I say, ‘he’s sure to come back, dearie’, I tell her, ‘you know how men are’, and I’m sure you do, too, John - particularly men of a certain age. Their eyes wander about, and those knobbly little fingers, too - it’s perfectly natural, I say. Why, my late husband would twice a week go to-”

 

“Mrs. Hudson,” John interrupts, voice kind but firm, “what are the keys for?”

 

“Hm?” she glances up at him, pulled from a reverie of her own - John shudders. “Oh, yes. They’re the spares to Sherlock’s flat. As I’ll be away for a bit, I thought…” she wrings her wrinkled hands together. “Well, I thought perhaps you should have them.” 

 

He holds up the key ring, jangling the keys lightly. “There’s three. Sherlock’s door’s only got the one keyhole.”

 

She nods. “Some new-fangled device, I suppose. They all go in the same keyway one after the other, but there’s some awful process to make the silly things work,” she shakes her head and stands up, smoothing the fabric down over her thighs. “I think I’ve got it written down somewhere, hang on…” she wanders into the kitchen, opening and closing several drawers before, “Ah! Yes, here it is.” She steps back into the kitchen and hands John a folded piece of paper, which he takes with slightly shaky hands. “Be sure to do it right, dear,” she admonishes, “if it’s done wrong it makes a wretched noise, like a sort of-” she waves a hand, “-gameshow klaxon or something-”

 

“Yes,” John nods, peering down at the still folded paper. “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”

 

“Oh, of course, dear,” she waves him off with a smile, leaning her good hip against the table and looking down at him fondly. “Could hardly leave poor Sherlock here alone, could I?” she tilts her head to the side, a thoughtful look coming over her face. “You know, he just doesn’t seem right without you,” she murmurs, then cuts her eyes - suddenly quite astute - back to John. “‘Fact, _neither_ of you boys ever seemed right without the other… did you?” She pierces John with her stare, and John remembers that, twittering old lady or no, Mrs. Hudson is _not_ to be trifled with.

 

He clears his throat, averting his eyes for a moment. “Er, no,” he says, and looks back up at her with a wince of a smile. “No, I s’pose not.”

 

A shrill ringing fills the flat, and Mrs. Hudson jumps.

 

“Oh! That must be my cab!” she says, pressing a hand to her chest with a self-deprecating smile. “Would you be a dear, and help me with this silly luggage?” she asks. “At my time of life, and with my hip, it’s-”

 

“Of course,” John nods.

 

He fidgets at his seat in the kitchen while Mrs. Hudson flitters about the flat before finally returning with two pull-along suitcases and a smallish worn bag with a long shoulder strap, which she carries herself. She smiles as John takes a suitcase handle in either hand, and he uncomfortably laughs off her worry over him not using his cane.

 

By the time he’s arranged both suitcases in the boot of the cab, Mrs. Hudson has settled herself into the back seat, door still ajar. He reaches in to pat her slim shoulder, but she grabs his hand and gives him an odd look as she pulls him in close. 

 

He tilts his better ear towards her mouth, and she says, just above a whisper, “You know, he’s not been well since he’s come back. Looked a fright when I first saw him again, nearly gave me a heart attack.” John huffs a sardonic laugh at that - he certainly knows the feeling. “And after…” she continues, trailing off for a moment, “Well. He’d call me by _your_ name, you see.” John’s head turns at that, and he meets her worried eyes. “‘John this’, ‘John that’, he said, for days on end. And he’d not drink my tea at all, said I didn’t make it right,” John frowns, but doesn’t interrupt as she continues, “And- he’d start… well, _muttering_ to himself. Gave me quite a scare, that did, but- he’s an odd one, our Sherlock, certainly, only…” she trails off again, and John follows her gaze up to the window into Sherlock’s sitting room. She squeezes his hand tightly. “Take care of him, would you? I tell you, dear, he isn’t _well_.”

 

John nods his head and says, “Yes,” though it comes out as a scratchy whisper. He clears his throat twice and looks back at the woman chewing her lip and worrying John’s hand. “Yes, of course, Mrs. Hudson. I’ll see to him.”

 

She squeezes his hand once more - quite tightly for a little old lady - before letting it go, a bit reluctantly. “Thank you, dear. He’s missed you something awful.”

 

John nods and swallows. “Yes. Of course, I’ve- … I’ve missed him as well.”

 

Mrs. Hudson frowns, a pitying little thing, and reaches up to cup John’s cheek in her soft, rose-scented hand. “Course you have, dear,” she whispers, and John suddenly has to fight the stinging sensation which has just developed behind his eyes. She smiles at him one last time, sad and a bit watery, before removing her hand and leaning back to settle herself in for the ride. “Alright,” she says, “I’d best be off, lest my sister do something foolish.”

 

John harrumphs again, _Get a hold of yourself, Watson._ “Yes, of course. Take good care of her,” he says, wholly failing to suppress the rough edge of his voice. He presses the door closed and taps the top of the car twice, stepping back as it zooms off into the foggy thruway of Baker Street. He watches as it disappears onto Marylebone Road, then turns back to 221 and squares his shoulders. 

 

Pulling the keyring out of his left trouser pocket and the folded paper out of his right, John wonders vaguely if barging in on Sherlock with Mrs. Hudson’s borrowed keys might constitute a serious invasion of privacy. He nearly laughs out loud at the thought.

 

—

 

“Bloody buggering _hell_.”

 

John knows Mycroft is a bit of a security fanatic - running the British government and possibly the world, and all - but, honestly, this is just _ridiculous_. 

 

“Alright, okay,” he mumbles to himself, flattening out the paper against the door and squinting his eyes to read Mrs. Hudson’s loopy script. “Medium key, quarter turn left, back to center, three-quarter turn right… Alright. Er.. Small key, half turn right, back to center, quarter turn left, center, quarter turn right… Bugger, alright. And… large key, quarter turn right, center, quarter turn left, center.. three-quarter turn right - _Jesus bloody_ \- aaannd…”

 

_Click._

 

“Ho, thank Christ.”

 

He cautiously presses the door open, mindful of the slight creaking, in the off chance that Sherlock is actually asleep. Though it’s pretty unlikely considering John had banged his fist on the door incessantly not half an hour ago. Add to that that John is quite sure he’s never actually _seen_ Sherlock sleep, and-

 

Sherlock is asleep.

 

John stares for a moment, jaw slack and too shocked to even cross the threshold. 

 

The detective is curled up on his side facing the back of the sofa, no dressing gown or vest, but a pair of worn pajama bottoms slung low on his hips. Even from here, John can see each of his vertebrae, small rounded protrusions all down his spine casting tiny shadows on his translucent white skin. The broadness of his back and shoulders is offset by the surprising narrowness of his waist and hips, slimmer than John had ever noticed before, and it occurs to John that the (obscenely expensive) tailored suits that, two years ago, would cling to Sherlock like a second skin would likely hang off of his rangy form now.  

 

John shakes himself and snaps his jaw shut, stepping over the threshold and pressing the door shut behind him. He strips himself of his coat, eyes still riveted to the man on the sofa, and hangs it haphazardly from a hook.

 

Sherlock looks… small. Confined in a way that the usually larger-than-life detective had never seemed before. John shudders and forcibly pulls his eyes away.

 

The first thing he sees is a frankly inordinate quantity of half drunk teacups. _What the…_ he gingerly steps further into the room, until his shins nearly brush the coffee table, which is littered with no less than _nine_ cups of tea. None are empty, and some are full almost to the brim. He recognises the fuller mugs as being Mrs. Hudson’s, and he notices that a few of them have an oily looking film across the top, as if they’ve sat undrunk for several days. John shakes his head, exasperated but unsurprised at Sherlock’s lazine-

 

“The electrithity ithn’t working in your bathroom.*”

 

John’s head snaps up, apologies and excuses springing unbidden to his lips. But when his eyes alight on the detective - still quite clearly out cold - they die in his throat unspoken. John peers at the back of Sherlock’s head, hair still shorter than usual, but less drastic than when he’d first reappeared six weeks ago.

 

“And your wife… ith thleeping with.. the nectht door neighbor…*” Sherlock trails off, shifting minutely.

 

John’s eyes squint almost uncomfortably as he notes, first, the slight frontal lisp, which he’s only ever heard when Sherlock was blind drunk - _Mycroft thaw me dithecting a cat penith when I wath theven -_ and, second, the odd accent the detective had spoken it in. Something… Eastern European? Maybe Slavic?

 

John huffs out a dark laugh; leave it to Sherlock to deduce in his dreams.

 

The clouds shift suddenly outside, and a shaft of bright morning light streams in through the window, illuminating the auburn highlights in Sherlock’s hair (the existence of which, Sherlock had always denied fiercely), the nearly radiant white of his skin, and…

 

John hunches over, peering a bit closer at the detective’s back.

 

“J-” _esus Christ_ , John finishes in his head. _What the fuck, Sherlock?_

 

His back, bony and angular, is mottled with silvery white scars. Some are small and neat, clearly made with some sort of a penknife, and some are jagged and wide - not quite enough to require stitches, but enough to look rather painful. John can see an arrangement of the jagged sort near Sherlock’s shoulder, which look rather like the drag of sharp fingernails, and there’s one that looks like a mean gouge just to the left of his spine at his waistline. Lastly, he notes, is a large plane of oddly textured skin that’s just barely visible above the elastic band of his trousers. John suspects it extends further down his right buttock and hip - likely even worse where John can’t see it, like a sort of torturous iceberg - and, non-genius that John is, he can’t quite determine if it’s a burn caused by friction or ( _Jesus fucking Christ_ ) acid.

 

_Oh god, oh my GOD, Sherlock. Why didn’t you tell me, you arsehole, why didn’t you_ say _?_

 

John nearly laughs at himself. When _would_ Sherlock have told him? The first night he’d come back, whilst John was screaming bloody murder and repeatedly punching him in the face? Or perhaps during his incessant texting phase, when John would glance over the messages and delete them almost immediately? Or maybe sometime during his recurring struggle through his own psychosexual minefield, which John may or may not have severely exacerbated three days ago?

 

Of _course_ , Sherlock didn’t tell him. And even if he had, how likely was it that John would have actually listened? Or cared?

 

_Of course, I would have cared. I’ve_ always _cared. Cared too much, even - s’why I’m so bloody mad at you, you tit, because I cared so fucking much for you-_

 

God _damn_ it. 

 

John can’t keep doing this.

 

He shakes out his hands and strides to the living room window, closing his eyes and breathing steadily for a few moments. When he opens them, he sees that the clouds have shifted again to hide the sun, and London looks just as bleak and grey as before. Though perhaps that’s just the grime on the pane.

 

John peers closer at the glass. No, it isn’t grime. He swipes a finger across the surface, heedless of the oil stains it leaves behind, and it comes away clean. He frowns in confusion and looks even closer. 

 

No, it isn’t dust. It’s some sort of… film?

 

_What on earth…?_

 

His eyes rove over the glass, taking in the odd speckling of the film as well as the tiny air bubbles between it and the glass; some of them appear to be on the inside, and some on the out. John shakes his head again, mouth working. _What even-_

 

_Shatterproof film._

 

John’s face goes slack with the realisation. The living room window has been retouched with shatterproof film, inside and out. Moreover, it looks like military grade stuff, the sort he’d seen comrades in Helmand sheet the windows of safehouses with. Should anyone try to break it - with rocks or mallets or even _bullets_ \- the glass would crack, certainly, but it wouldn’t displace, and the window would remain impenetrable.

 

_Jesus buggering-_

 

Oh. 

 

Oh, of course. Of _course_.

 

_— I worry about him. Constantly. —_

 

The voice erupts in John’s head, and he is transported to an old warehouse with wet cement floors, a gorgeous girl who’d not give John the time of day, and a right twat in a red tie with a gold clip and an anachronistic brolly.

 

_Mycroft._

 

Oh, yes, he could practically _smell_ Mycroft on this. It’s no wonder Sherlock despises the man so much; he’s practically turned the whole flat into a prison. New steel door, three keys for three deadbolts, bloody bulletproof windows, and God even knows what modifications he’s made to the bedroom since - judging by the sheet and pillow on the floor between the sofa and coffee table - Sherlock’s been sleeping out here.

 

Speaking of.

 

John glances back at Sherlock, still dead to the world, then creeps silently across the sitting room and down the hall. He finds Sherlock’s bedroom door, cracked ever so slightly, and stares blankly ahead. The door is as sooty as it was three days ago, but, on closer inspection, the handle looks shiny and new. John frowns then shakes his head and pushes through.

 

Inside, the room is dark and gloomy. Dust particles flitter about, only visible in the shaft of light cast through a slight parting in the curtains over Sherlock’s window. The place has an odd smell, musty with a slight chemical edge, though John thinks that might be the residual smell of the adhesive agent used to seal the shatter-proofing on the window - which John can see from here - trapped in the confined space of the room.

 

Aside from the general dirtiness of the place, it’s almost exactly as John remembers it. He casts a sparing glance at the bookcases, the bed (perfectly made), the framed poster of the periodic table, and, with a swift pivot, his eyes settle on the door.

 

Another deadbolt.

 

_Christ._

 

He shakes his head again and reopens it, stepping out into the surprising brightness of the hall.

 

He lingers for a moment, somewhat tempted to trudge up the stairs to his ( _old_ ) room. He bites his lip in contemplation before jerking his head in a firm negative; he knows what he’ll find there: a room unchanged from when he left it last, save for that ridiculous film over the window and maybe an unnecessary deadbolt or two. He doesn’t need to see it, he doesn’t need to relive his last ( _horrid_ ) memories of being there, and his dodgy leg certainly doesn’t need the strain of walking up the stairs.

 

He limps back into the sitting room, turning his head to glance at Sherlock, still breathing slow and deep in sleep. From this angle, he can see a bit of Sherlock’s front side, and his eyes rove over the protruding ribs, the glistening chest with slight pinkish-tan nipples, the smattered trail of tiny round burns along his side, and, finally, the unmistakable prominence at the apex of his legs. John swallows compulsively and steps silently towards the door, eyes stuck to Sherlock with the gravity of a small moon to an enormous planet.

 

Standing before the door with his head craned uncomfortably over his shoulder, John decides that, as soon as this… _thing_ is over, as soon as Sherlock is himself again, as soon as John can look at him without thinking of the weird scars criss-crossing his body, or his panicked expression as he found himself trapped inside his own head, or the ridiculously sinuous curve of his spine as John pressed his slicked finger into- … as soon as everything is _normal_ again, he and Sherlock are going to have a very long, very arduous discussion.

 

As he pulls the door closed, he peeks through the sliver just enough to see - behind the speckled and unbreakable sitting room window - that a storm is brewing in the grey London sky.

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * adapted from episode one of series three
> 
> Alright, so we're on the home stretch now ;)
> 
> As always, this is neither beta'd nor brit-picked, so please alert and forgive me of any errors.
> 
> And again, your comments are fantastic! They're the perfect panacea for my writer's block, and they give me all manner of warm fuzzies :)
> 
> Sorry for the shortness of the chapter; the next one will be much longer, and, frankly, a bit heavier...
> 
> Thanks again!
> 
> Love,
> 
> Local xoxo


	6. Shamefully Crooked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft’s lips pinch and he nods once, face slipping back into its usual mask of arrogant indifference. He walks six paces to the door, fingers on the handle, before he turns his head back to the pair of them. “I’m never sure which of you is the pot, and which is the kettle.”

John isn’t sure why he skips the squeaky sixth step. 

 

His actions of four days ago notwithstanding, he knows better than to eavesdrop; one sole instance of picking up the second handset whilst Harry was having phone sex with her sixth form girlfriend had put paid to that - and that had been _accidental_. Who even knows what hell karma will inflict upon him if he _deliberately_ listens in on the bloody Holmes brothers, of all people. Besides, it’s not like he’s much of a one for translating Holmesian (which predominately consists of metaphors, adverbs, and rhetorical questions) into English.

 

And yet.

 

Mycroft’s voice floats in from above him, fermenting the musty air of the stairway with its pomposity. “… -the adjustments that were requested, and _still-_ ”

 

“Oh, piss off, Mycroft,” he hears Sherlock retort. John reins in a snort at the tone.

 

“Whatever would Mummy think, Sherlock? Or has it yet to occur to you how your actions might affect oth-”

 

“She’ll not think anything unless you _tell_ her, _brother mine_.”

 

_Tell her_. John silently climbs another two steps. _Tell her what?_

 

“Sherlock-”

 

“Honestly, Mycroft,” Sherlock interrupts, “-stooping to _threats_? At ten in the morning? Aren’t you some sort of diplomat?”

 

John can practically hear Mycroft’s eyes roll. “No.”

 

A faint snort from Sherlock. “Ah, yes, no need for diplomacy when one runs the world.”

 

“We are not discussing _me_ , Sherlock-”

 

“Thank god.”

 

“We are discussing your gross inability to _control yourself!_ ” Mycroft’s tone becomes harsh, and John’s brow rises. He’s never seen Mycroft’s composure slip in the slightest; in fact, John thought it might be tailored into his suit.

 

Another snort from Sherlock, this one (somehow) more bitter than the last. “Says the most uptight man this side of the _equator_. Tell me,” his muffled voice says conversationally, “is it the standard parliamentary Black Rod that’s lodged inside your-”

 

_Ouch._

 

“We are _not-_ ”

 

“-Talking about you, yes, of course, we’re talking about _me_ , and my questionable habits, which do not, as it happens, concern you in the slightest!” Sherlock nearly bellows, and John takes another step. _Questionable habits?_ John’s step falters and he grabs the banister to keep himself upright. _No. No, no, no - he said he didn’t, he_ told _me-_

 

“Unfortunately for us _both_ , Sherlock, you are my brother, and therefore anything that concerns you, concerns m-”

 

“Well, there you have it,” Sherlock says matter-of-factly. “I’m not at all _concerned_ -”

 

“You wouldn’t be, would you?” Mycroft snaps as John takes the final step onto the landing.

 

“What the hell does that mean?” Sherlock sputters.

 

A brief pause, and John tries to convince himself he doesn’t know what’s coming, that Mycroft is wrong - _fat chance_. “It means that you are a drug addict. Sherlock.”

 

_No. No, he wouldn’t. Not after he said-_

 

Sherlock chuckles darkly, and John’s jaw clenches tight. “Is that what we’re resorting to now? Stating the blindingly obvious?”

 

God _damn_ it.

 

John pushes (throws) the door open, ignoring the rare surprise on Mycroft’s face and staring at Sherlock - stood imperiously in the center of the room - with flinty, narrowed eyes. “You’re using again?” He’s mildly surprised when his voice comes out level and calm, but it seems to unnerve Sherlock. Odd, Sherlock doesn’t usually have nerves.

 

He’s got some nerve today.

 

John ignores the pointed way Mycroft’s eyes flicker between his brother and John as the detective stares slack-jawed for a half-second and swallows once. “J-”

 

“Dr. Watson,” cue Mycroft’s im-fucking-peccable timing, “so glad you could join us. I was just-”

 

John spares him barely a glance. “Piss off, Mycroft,” he says flatly, settling his eyes again on Sherlock. “Did he just say you’re on the drugs again?” Ah yes, there’s the rage now, bleeding into the tone - the rage that had made him punch Sherlock in the face (twice), made him wrap his arms around a psychopath in a Westwood suit, made more than one commanding officer in Helmand call him _sir_.

 

Sherlock blinks and his jaw twitches. His mouth works for a moment before his eyebrows rise placatingly. “John, I can explain-”

 

“So it’s true,” John interrupts, voice a hair’s breadth from a whisper.

 

Sherlock’s eyes fall shut for a short moment, during which John debates whether he should walk out, yell and walk out, or throw something, yell, and walk out. Where’s his bloody ICD-10 when he needs it? Sherlock’s eyes flick open. “John-”

 

Nothing for it.

 

“For _fuck’s_ sake,” he shouts, surging forward. Sherlock takes a step back, face going irritatingly blank, and John notices Mycroft’s posture straighten in his peripheral vision. “I asked you,” he says crowding into Sherlock’s space and pointing a shaking finger at him, “I _told_ you that I would help you, that I wouldn’t be disappointed, and you _lied_ , you lied _right_ to my f-”

 

“I didn’t lie to you, John,” Sherlock murmurs, eyes fixed at a point over John’s shoulder. “When you asked me eight days ago if I had taken drugs, I _hadn’t_.” 

 

John feels his face contort into an ugly rictus of a smile. “Oh ho, so you decided it would be perfectly fine, not at all a breach of trust to-”

 

Sherlock’s eyes close again. “It isn’t what you think, John-”

 

_Fuck you, Sherlock Holmes._ “And you know _so_ bloody well what I think.”

 

A ringing silence fills the flat then, as John stares hard into Sherlock’s eyes while the detective’s remain lost in the middle distance, immobile and unreachable.

 

Sherlock is always so far away.

 

John hears a soft harrumph from behind him. “John,” Mycroft starts, “perhaps you sh-”

 

John’s eyes don’t leave Sherlock’s and the younger Holmes head turns just enough to throw his voice at his brother as they say in unison, “Shut up, Mycroft!”

 

The British Government falls silent ( _thank fuck_ ) and Sherlock finally looks up at John. “I didn’t take them to get _high_ ,” John snorts bitterly at that, “I took them because I _needed_ them, because they’re the only way past this _stupid-_ ”

 

“Not the only way,” Mycroft interrupts.

 

Sherlock growls, “ _Mycroft-_ ”

 

“What?” John asks, turning to Mycroft.

 

“Not another word,” Sherlock hisses at his brother, and his eyes look like the searing blue center of a flame. “I’ll sell all your secrets just as you sold mine.”

 

Something tells John that that might bring about World War III, if not the full on apocalypse. His eyes, still hard and slitted, flick back and forth between the brothers in bemusement.

 

Mycroft’s face hardens. “ _Sherlock_ -”

 

_Fuck this._ John looks to Sherlock. “What’s he talking ab-” he begins before shaking his head and turning to Mycroft. “What are you talking about?”

 

Mycroft clears his throat primly and glances down at the weathered handle of his brolly. “Moriarty-”

 

_Moriarty?_

 

Sherlock whirls around to face his brother, the hem of his gown fluttering wildly. “Moriarty is _dead_ , and has nothing - _nothing_ \- to do with it.”

 

Mycroft raises a brow. “Perhaps not directly, but-”

 

“Mycroft-”

 

John shakes his head, still quite hung up on the the name he’d have been happy never to hear again. “Wait, Moriarty?”

 

“Yes,” Mycroft says, as Sherlock growls over him, “ _No._ ”

 

Barely a moment ago, John might have assumed that Sherlock was telling the truth. But now, with the sheen in his eyes from not only his… _problem_ , but presumably the cocaine as well, John finds himself turning to Mycroft. _Trusting Mycroft Bloody Holmes_ , John thinks and wonders briefly if the world might be spinning in reverse. “What’s Moriarty got to do with Sherlock using again?” he asks the British Government.

 

Mycroft’s brow rises in a slight show of surprise, before opening his mouth to speak.

 

Of course, Sherlock doesn’t give him the chance. “I took the drugs to aid in my recovery,” he says, stepping between John and his brother.

 

John quirks a brow. _That’s rich_. “Your _recovery_. You recovery from what?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes dart side to side and he bites his lip for a moment. Turning his head toward his brother, he murmurs over his shoulder, “Leave, Mycroft.”

 

From over Sherlock’s shoulder, John can see the wary look on Mycroft’s face. John wonders when Mycroft learned so many facial expressions. “Sherlock-” Mycroft starts.

 

“Get _out_!” Sherlock bellows, back still to his brother.

 

John turns his attention back to the gaunt, flushed face before him and grits his teeth. He doesn’t spare Mycroft a glance as he says, “Go, Mycroft. I can handle this.”

 

A muffled sigh from the British Government. “I sincerely doubt that.”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “You haven’t the capacity to ‘ _sincerely_ ’ anything. Get out.”

 

Mycroft’s lips pinch and he nods once, face slipping back into its usual mask of arrogant indifference. He walks six paces to the door, fingers on the handle, before he turns his head back to the pair of them. “I’m never sure which of you is the pot, and which is the kettle.”

 

John frowns and glances to Mycroft, opening his mouth to ask what the hell that means just as Sherlock bites out, “Yes, well, John and I both look rather fine in black.” He turns to his brother, face sneering viciously,“Unlike a certain _gelatinous cake-fiend_ , with whom I unfortunately share DNA. _Leave_.”

 

Mycroft sighs again then quickly takes his leave. John wonders, as the door closes silently behind the elder Holmes, how the two of them survived their childhoods together - surely one should have murdered the other?

 

Sherlock turns to John with a nearly apologetic look on his face. “John,” he begins, voice soft and conciliatory.

 

Ugh, John hates it when Sherlock shams at human. “Why.”

 

Sherlock frowns. “What?”

 

_Twat._ “Why are you _using_ again?”

 

Sherlock has enough grace to blush, but apparently not enough to _think_ before speaking, as he says flippantly, “It’s irrelevant, J-”

 

“Christ,” John hisses, and he steps forward until he’s nearly chest to chest with the detective, who shrinks back slightly. “I will leave here, Sherlock,” John says in a vicious whisper. “I will walk out of here, and I will _never_ come back, if you don’t tell me the truth - the _whole_ truth - right. fucking. now.”

 

Sherlock swallows and tilts his head in that irritating way he does when feigning empathy with a victim. “John-”

 

_“Tell me the truth!_ ” John shouts, heedless of the nosy neighbours, or Mycroft likely still lingering out in the hall, or even Sherlock’s strange wince. “Tell me the truth,” he says again, this time softly and with an ugly smile, “… or I will leave.”

 

“You won’t leave,” Sherlock says, his voice level but his expression uncertain.

 

“Bet on it,” John says firmly, and his voice is a cliffside, beaten gravelly and angry. “And if I leave here now, I won’t come back.”

 

Sherlock’s head pops up at that, and John ( _stupidly_ ) thinks for a moment that he may have gotten through to him. Then Sherlock blinks once, twice, three times, and his face breaks into a disbelieving sneer. “Of course, you’ll come back,” he says, tone accusatory and, just slightly, _amused_.

 

John’s hackles raise. “ _Sherlock_ ,” he intones.

 

The detective barks out a short laugh, crowding into John’s personal space, and it’s just like two years ago - only John doesn’t  ~~ adore ~~ admire this man. No, he _loathes_ this man. “Oh, what, did you think I didn’t notice?” Sherlock begins, his lips quirking inimically, “That I didn’t read it on you the second I saw you in that silly little coffee shop?”

 

_Don’t. Don’t do this, Sherlock. Please, just-_ “Stop _._ ”

 

“You’ve done _nothing_ , since I’ve been away,” Sherlock hisses, unmoved by John’s command. “You were miserable, lifeless, bored, _boring,_ ” he bites out, towering over John with his contorted face barely an inch away. _“_ As long as I’m here,” he murmurs, pitch dropping ominously, “you’ll _always_ come back, John. You _need_ me. … You could never stay away.”

 

John’s vision goes a bit spotty, greying out at the edges in an odd sort of tunnel vision. He wants to hit Sherlock, _hard_ , and then hit him again, and again, and again. He wants to add his own bruises and marks to the ones he’s already seen on the detective’s body - in fact, he wants to congratulate whoever put them there, maybe buy them a drink or four. He wants to hold Sherlock down and beat him and break him and _hurt_ him for daring to say something so- so- 

 

_You could never stay away._

 

True. Quite true. John never could stay away.

 

But if the past month and half - really, the past two years - have taught him anything, it’s that Sherlock most certainly _can_ stay away. John snorts aloud. _Good on you, Sherlock._

 

_I wish Regents Park had been flooded._

 

_I wish Stamford had forgotten my name._

 

_I wish I’d_ never met _Sherlock Holmes._

 

Suddenly, it’s the easiest thing in the world to turn around and walk away.

 

—

 

He’s down the stairs and nearly to the front door before he hears Sherlock’s frantic steps. He’s shaking his head and pulling open the front door - _no, no more, I’m done, finished_ \- when he feels a solid, warm weight plough into his back. The door slams shut as his front is pressed against it. He ignores the spike of pain in his knee, as well as Sherlock’s panting breath as his spindly hands come to rest against the door on either side of John’s head.

 

He doesn’t turn around. “ _Sherlock._ ”

 

“Please. _Please,_ don’t.”

 

And there’s the feigned desperation. He’s gotten quite good at that. John’s eyes fall closed and he pushes backwards just enough so he can open the door again, ignoring the way the curve of his spine fits into the hollow of Sherlock’s chest.

 

Sherlock makes an odd sound, like a growl and a screech combined. “No!” he says urgently and pushes the door shut again, spinning John around by the shoulders and pressing him back against the hard wood. “No, please,” he whispers, and his eyes are glassy. John snorts - _you won’t get your BAFTA from me -_ and Sherlock looks at him with an expression of confusion and mild hurt, before shaking his head. “Just… Come back up.”

 

John clenches his jaw. “No.”

 

“Please.”

 

“ _No._ ”

 

“ _John_.”

 

“Why,” John asks flatly. _So you can humiliate me with my stupid addiction_ ~~ _to you_ ~~ _while you indulge in your own?_

 

Sherlock’s hands tighten on his shoulders, and his eyes dart about unfocussed. “I need you to… I need you to make tea.”

 

_…Of fucking course you do._ “Jesus Chr-”

 

“Please, John, please,” he says, and his voice cracks in a horribly familiar way — _please, will you do this for me? This phone call, it’s my n_ — “Come up. Make tea. I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you everything.”

 

—

 

John may have set Sherlock’s mug on the coffee table with a bit more force than necessary. He may have also shoved Sherlock off of him after his (almost convincing) plea at the front door then stomped his way up the stairs, leg be damned. He also may have banged the mugs and kettle around as he brewed the tea, cursing under his breath all the while. And now, as he sits in his chair across from Sherlock fidgeting on the sofa, his expression may be bordering on downright hateful.

 

He won’t speak first. If he has his way - which he almost never does - he won’t speak at all.

 

Sherlock picks up his mug, slightly tacky on the sides with spilt tea, and holds it between slightly shaking hands. His jaw pulses twice, and he straightens his back, affecting a look of prudish detachment. “I started using when I was nineteen. Partially to stimulate parts of my brain, and partially to… _suppress_ others,” he says, voice blank. The practiced insouciance cracks for a moment as the man’s eyes twitch side to side. “Certain… illegal substances were able to shorten or, in some cases, entirely eliminate my-” he swallows, “ _episodes_ , and allowed me to carry on with the Work in a way that I am-” a mildly irritated sniff, “-unable to, at current.”

 

John stares at him blankly for a moment, before his face scrunches up in disbelief. “You used the drugs to prevent the…” he waves a hand awkwardly, but Sherlock seems to understand.

 

“Yes,” he nods. “And the subsequent deletion of vital information.” He looks up at John, eyes nearly boring through his skull. “It was _necessary_ , John.”

 

John snorts with no humour. _God, you’re an idiot_. “Agree to disagree on that one,” he mumbles, then sets his own mug on the table with a _thunk_. “What’s any of this got to do with Moriarty? Mycroft said it was indirectly related.”

 

Sherlock’s right eye squints and he tilts his head. “He said it wasn’t _directly_ related.”

 

John rolls his eyes. “I deduced.”

 

“You inferred.”

 

“ _Sherlock_.”

 

“Pavlov.”

 

… _Pavlov?_ John blinks several times and sits back in the chair. “Good name for a dog.”

 

Sherlock lets out a tiny huff of laughter, but doesn’t smile. “Yes,” he begins, face contorting in… _something_. “The.. _situation_ is-” he tips his head side to side, “-similar.”

 

John blinks again and makes a face. “You taking illegal drugs is similar to Pavlov’s dog?”

 

The detective winces and shakes his head once, “No, not…” he trails off with a sigh, and his eyes shift over the three empty mugs on the coffee table. “A dog becomes hungry,” he starts again, “salivates, at the sight of food. It’s a biological reflex to an unconditioned stimulus, entirely natural. By feeding the dog whilst or just after ringing a bell, the dog is then conditioned to associate the bell with sustenance, and henceforth th-”

 

“-dog salivates when the bell rings,” John finishes with a roll of the eyes. He wonders briefly if Sherlock has again deleted the fact that John went to medical school. “Where are you going with this?” he asks, tone tinged with exasperation. “How does Moriar-”

 

“Moriarty doesn’t come into it,” Sherlock interrupts with a sideways jerk of his head. “At least not directly. Not at all, from my perspective.”

 

_Buggering hell, what are we even talking about then?_ “Sssoo-”

 

“Due to-” Sherlock begins, the public school nonchalance rearing its ugly head again, “Due to the nature of my… psychological responses to coitus-” _oh fuck_ , “I have essentially been… _conditioned_ -” Sherlock grimaces around the word, “-to… _panic-_ ” an all out scowl at that one, “-at any sexual stimulus.” He sniffs once and flitters a hand. “Of course, the analogy is imperfect as the canine brain is far less complex than a human’s - Anderson notwithstanding,” he mutters, and John’s lip quirks up for a bare second. Sherlock gives a tiny smile at that before he bites his lip, face going blank again. “While in dogs, it is, let’s call it a ‘one-way’ conditioning, in humans, conditioned stimuli and trained responses tend to be decidedly…”

 

“Two-way,” John finishes, with a slight frown.

 

“Precisely.”

 

John’s eyes flick back and forth as he tries to figure Sherlock’s meaning. “So… if Pavlov’s dog were Pavlov’s _bloke_ , then whenever he was fed, he would…?”

 

Sherlock nods, sombre. “Expect to hear the ring of a bell, yes.”  

 

John nods. He supposes it makes sense, but… _What are we talking about?_ “Okay. I’m … I’m not getting it.”

 

The detective sighs, and his eyes flit about as he thinks - presumably at light-speed. After a moment, his eyes widen slightly and he looks up at John, setting his tea on the coffee table next to a slightly oily-looking mug. “Humans have synaptic patterns,” he begins, hands gesticulating jerkily, “which we follow regularly enough not to even contemplate. They become ingrained in us with enough repetition.” 

 

John shakes his head in bemusement. “Oookay.”

 

Sherlock’s head jerks to the side in irritation and John just barely suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. The detective huffs. “A businessman whose wife tells him constantly that his tie is shamefully crooked will, almost inevitably, reach to straighten his tie when he feels ashamed or nervous, regardless of whether or not said tie is, in fact, crooked.” Sherlock lifts his brows in an expectant look slightly tinged with impatience.

 

John bites his lip, still confused and ever so slightly belligerent, before his head pops up in realisation. “Like cross-wiring.”

 

“Yes, exactly!” Sherlock responds, bringing his splayed fingers up to his hair in his standard _why-didn’t-I-think-of-that_ way. “He’s cross-wired,” he says, nodding, and John frowns at the repetition.

 

“And…” John trails off for a moment, wondering if this next question will get him a face full of tea. “And so are you?” he asks quietly, face wary.

 

Sherlock’s face closes off entirely, and he brings his knees up to his chest. “Mycroft believes so.”

 

John frowns again. _Wonder if Mary’s got anything for crow’s feet._ “But you don’t.”

 

Sherlock is silent, which John takes as agreement.

 

“And is that because you really believe you’re not - cross-wired, that is - or because you refuse to agree with your brother?” he asks with a quirk of a brow.

 

Sherlock raises his own brow in return. “Are the two mutually exclusive?”

 

“Sherlock.”

 

The detective shakes his head, one of the longer curls from the top displacing onto his forehead. “His logic is sound, as always. But it isn’t his logic that’s in question, it’s the fact that said logic is based on an incorrect premise.”

 

_What._ “You’ve lost me again.”

 

Sherlock brings a hand up to clench in his hair. “Christ’s _sake-_ ”

 

“Alright, okay, just…” John holds up his hands and attempts to figure his way through the tortuous conversation. “ _Sex-_ ” John ignores Sherlock’s slight flinch, “-makes you panic, I got that. Could hardly have missed it. But now Mycroft believes that… panic makes you…” _oh god_ , “…aroused?”

 

Sherlock swallows and tips his chin to his knees in a nod. “That’s the logic, yes.”

 

“But you don’t agree with the logic.”

 

“I _do_ agree with the logic; it’s nearly Pavlovian in its simplicity, hence the analogy. However, my idiot brother’s logical progression constitutes the last two thirds of a syllogism, the first third of which is incorrect.”

 

God _damn_ it. Is it completely beyond a Holmes to talk like a human person? John takes a moment to parse that out - which becomes much easier once he remembers what the hell a _syllogism_ is - then sits forward in his seat, elbows settled on the armrests. “And that syllogism would be?”

 

Sherlock quirks a brow. “Well, from his perspective, ‘Silly Sherlock is anxious’,” he says in a slightly high-pitched voice that does sound quite a bit like Mycroft, “‘and arousal and anxiety are cross-wired in Silly Sherlock’s diminutive little brain; therefore, Silly Sherlock is aroused. Pip pip, time for tea and cake’.”

 

_… Okay_. What had he said a second ago? Something… ‘constitutes the last two thirds but the first third is wrong’? John leans back in seat again, staring at the bullet-ridden smiley face on the wall while he tries to make sense of this ( _fucking ridiculous_ ) discussion. About ten seconds of staring into the dripping yellow eyes, it dawns on him. “You don’t think you’re anxious.”

 

Sherlock sighs in relief, his posture finally slackening. “No, I don’t. And even if I were, it would be a _result_ of the… _situation_ , not its causation.”

 

John thinks on that for a moment, then winces with comprehension.

 

“Vicious circle,” he murmurs, eyes still fixed on the marred stretch of wallpaper.

 

He sees Sherlock frown out the corner of his eye. “What?”

 

John takes a quick breath, looking back to Sherlock and tapping his jittery fingers against the armrests. “If you’re anxious, you get… turned on, I guess, which, in turn, makes you anxious. It’s a cycle,” he tilts his head, gaze drifting back to the smiley face. “An ugly one.”

 

The detective sighs again, this time in annoyance. “Presuming Mycroft is correct, which I’m telling you he _isn’t_.”

 

John snorts. Mycroft may be an arsehole in gold cufflinks, and he may have made some (occasionally severe) errors, but when it comes to cold, hard facts, Mycroft Holmes is _never_ wrong. He shakes his head. “You still haven’t answered my question. What’s Mori-” 

 

John’s phone beeps out an alarm he had nearly forgotten he set. He glances down at it.

 

_Appt with Ella - 1130_. 

 

“Shit,” he murmurs under his breath, then glances back up at Sherlock before looking back to his phone. _11:05_. “I’ve gotta go.”

 

Sherlock’s legs drop back down to the floor and his eyes rove over John’s form. John grimaces, wondering - and then pointedly _not_ wondering - what the detective observes on him. “Date?” Sherlock asks conversationally.

 

John glances once more at his phone before tucking it into his pocket. “Ah, no,” he says. “Seeing-” he pauses for a moment, hoping to God his voice sounds normal, “-an old friend. Look, can we talk about this tomo-”

 

“You’re actually seeing that ridiculous therapist again? Whatever for?”

 

_Fuck._ “I never said I-”

 

“You didn’t have to,” Sherlock says with a scoff, “it’s obvious. All of your ‘old friends’ are still overseas; you’re still not talking to Harry - presumably because she’s gone back to _her_ ‘old friend’, at the bottom of the bottle; you have no reason to be ashamed of seeing Mary and haven’t been reticent to refer to her previously; so, the only person you would attempt to lie to me about seeing is your therapist. Why are you seeing her,” Sherlock demands.

 

John sputters for a moment, emotions warring between mild awe at Sherlock’s spot-on deductions and rage at the man’s ridiculous gall in actually asking _that_ question.

 

As it isn’t two years ago (which John has taken to reminding himself quite regularly), rage wins.

 

He laughs bitterly, and Sherlock presses himself back into the sofa. “Why am I seeing a therapist? Well, I dunno, Sherlock,” John grits out slowly, his face a twisted smile with burning, _festering_ eyes.

 

Sherlock seems to realise his mistake - too late. “John,” he starts, voice pacific and placatory.

 

John has no use for _pacific_. John is the fucking _Arctic_ right now - icy wind and jagged, clipping waves and deadly icebergs shattering freighters against the frozen masses of their bodies. “ _Maybe_ ,” he continues, voice steadily rising in both pitch and volume, “because twenty months ago I watched my best friend, the man who brought me back from the dead, the most ridiculously-”

 

“John-” 

 

“-brilliant and incredible person I’ve ever known, jump from the roof of my alma mater and _splatter_ himself across the pavement.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes fall shut with a flutter. “ _Please_ -”

 

John isn’t finished. John’s barely even _begun_. “The man I’d called a _machine_ , not an hour before. The man-”

 

“ _John_ -”

 

“-I’d _shot_ a bloke to protect, the man I’d been willing to _die_ for in some bloody pool with a fucking _madman_. _You_ , Sherlock _Bloody_ Holmes,” he points a gnarled, trembling finger at the wretched, horrid, _dead_ man seated oh-so-comfortably on the sofa. John wills his voice not to crack, “You _killed yourself-_ ” his will isn’t what it used to be, “-in _front of me_.” 

 

Sherlock’s eyes snap open, the pupils slowly contracting into focus. He looks up at John, and his face is bleak as the London sky, staunch yet breakable like tempered glass. “To protect you, John,” he murmurs, voice cracking slightly on John’s name.

 

John stares at him, cold and hostile; he is the Arctic, after all. “ _I don’t care_.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes widen almost comically, then his face goes utterly, starkly blank. John feels the same pull in his chest as the first time he’d told Harry to call a cab if she needed a lift, and he knows that something is broken.

 

Well, whatever it was, Sherlock broke it first. 

 

John shakes his head and stands up on surprisingly steady legs. He marches to the door and throws over his shoulder, as he shrugs into his coat, “Maybe _you_ can pretend you don’t need help, but I can’t. I’ll see you later.”

 

“John,” he hears Sherlock murmur faintly behind him, but he doesn’t turn back. 

 

As he walks down the stairs, he slips a hand into his pocket, clenching the three keys there until he can’t feel his fingers.

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per usual, this is neither beta'd nor brit-picked, so please forgive and alert me of any mistakes.
> 
> And, of course, thank you for your lovely comments! They truly do make my day :)
> 
> Whew, only two chapters left! Ch. 7 should be up pretty quickly as it's mostly done now. Ch. 8 might take me a little bit though - we'll see.
> 
> Again, thanks so much for the support, and I hope you're enjoying so far!
> 
> Love,
> 
> Local xoxo


	7. Fragile Network

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sitting now in this lovely room, with the comfy chair and the hardwood floor and the long, sleek glass windows, John thinks - as he pointedly does _not_ read Ella’s writing upside down - that it’s all rather silly; why should he say it when everyone knows?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *PTSD trigger warning*

 

All in all, John quite likes Ella. She’s never bothered when he cancels an appointment, yet never surprised when he turns up for a walk-in. And she’s got a gentle way, her voice soft and coaxing, but never patronising, and she always knows when to pull back and when to _push_.

 

Lately, she’s been pushing quite a bit. And, for the first time in over three years, John finds himself resenting it.

 

Of course, it isn’t really her fault; John hasn’t told her Sherlock is back, which might have been a vital bit of information, particularly as regards his treatment. Without that knowledge, Ella is still attempting to draw out of him the very words he’d refused to say to her nearly twenty-one months ago.

 

_The stuff you wanted to say… but didn’t say it… Say it now._

 

_No. … I’m sorry, I can’t._

 

He couldn’t say it then, when Sherlock was dead, and he certainly won’t now that he’s alive. Seems there isn’t really any circumstance in which John could actually _say_ those words, besides in the febrile and unruly corners of his subconscious.

 

Thing is, everyone - _everyone_ \- already knows.

 

—

_20 months ago_

 

“Wouldn’t hurt to admit it, Johnny,” Harry grumbled. She was sat on the floor, legs under the short coffee table and back against the tattered sofa, where John sat cross-legged like when they were kids. Only, unlike thirty years ago, she wasn’t the only one throwing back scotch like water.

 

“Admit what?” he asked, slumping over his half-empty glass.

 

“Don’t play stupid,” she said, grabbing the bottle to pour him another. “I’m better at it than you.”

 

John frowned into the cascading amber liquid. “Shut up, Harry.”

 

“There’s no one here to hear it but me,” she said, glancing about the living room like a bloody mime. She set the bottle back down and turned her weathered face up to his, quirking a brow. “And s’not like _I’ll_ judge you, is it?”

 

John squeezed his eyes shut. “Shut _up_ , Harry.”

 

“Three words, little brother. You can say ‘em,” she said with a shrug, knocking back the last finger in her glass. “Feel better if you do.”

 

“I really doubt that.”

 

She peered up at him, her face sad and drawn - like always. “I say it all the time, when I’m feelin’ low. ‘I love Clara’. See? S’easy,” she said and reached for the bottle again.

 

John took a burning gulp. “It’s different.”

 

Harry shook her head, displacing a bit of her grey blonde fringe. “No, it isn’t,” she murmured, pouring herself another glass.

 

“Clara isn’t _dead_ ,” John gritted out.

 

Harry stared straight ahead for a moment, then frowned and shrugged again. “Could be. Not heard a peep from her in… gone three months now.”

 

_Bugger._ John shook his head. “It’s still different.”

 

“No, it isn’t, love,” Harry said, voice gone soft. It always reminded him of their mum when she did that. God, he hated it.

 

“You’re _in_ love with her,” he countered, taking another gulp. “It wasn’t like that with Sherlock.”

 

Harry snorted. “Bollocks.”

 

Fuck, John was so tired of this. “It _wasn’t_. God- why is this so hard for people to understand? We weren’t lovers or, or _boyfriends_ or- whatever. We were… mates,” he finished, looking blankly into his glass again. “Best mates.”

 

“Johnny-”

 

“And it doesn’t matter now anyway, ‘cause he’s dead.”

 

Harry winced at that and set her glass down with a thunk, turning to John and putting a soft hand on his knee. “… John.”

 

“He’s _dead_ , Harry,” he said firmly, uncrossing his legs and setting them on the ground. He pretended not to notice her frown as she pulled her hand back. “And it doesn’t matter,” he repeated, and grimaced around the last swallow of his drink.

 

He’d never much liked Glenfiddich.

 

—

 

_19 months ago_

 

The funeral was awful, and John wished he hadn’t gone.

 

He smiled his _fuck-off-who-are-you_ smile at everyone he didn’t know or care about, and his _fuck-off-I’m-grieving_ smile at everyone he did. A few people - mostly clients whose lives or money or reputation or _pets_ Sherlock had saved - tried to hug him, but he’d only leaned back and extended his hand. They’d given him that queer look people do when they’re confused and hurt but know they shouldn’t be, but they’d taken his hand anyway. John had never been much of a germaphobe, but suddenly he was wishing quite fervently for an alcohol swab.

 

Of course, he could hardly lean away from Molly, who had loved Sherlock  ~~ as John had ~~ .

 

“I’m glad he had you,” Molly whispered as she clutched him close. “He always needed someone, and…” she sniffled a bit, “and I’m glad it was you.” She’d dabbed her eyes with her scarf as she pulled away. John was frozen for a moment, suspended precariously above the blue-black tumult of unsounded waters - _he always needed someone—the stuff you wanted to say—no one could be that smart -_ and when he reached a hand out to Molly, he found she was but a tiny speck in the distance.

 

—

_18 months ago_

 

John felt right stupid saying ‘goodbye’ to an empty flat. He felt even more stupid that he could barely get the word out for the blockage in his throat. 

 

No. No more. Today, he was leaving. He had to, really. With or without the gun Lestrade had had the gall to confiscate from him two months ago, John would likely do something _truly_ stupid if he had to spend another day in this flat that still looked and smelled and _felt_ like Sherlock.

 

And, as much as he might have liked to walk right past Mrs. Hudson’s door and out into the city, he couldn’t - mostly because she was just outside it, waiting for him. She took one look at the bag slung over his shoulder and the determined ( _drawn, empty, dead_ ) look on his face and burst into tears, throwing her arms round his neck and mumbling platitudes.

 

“You’ll be alright, John, you _will_ ,” she said, pulling back to look up at him tearfully. “It’ll take some time, certainly - maybe a long time. Why, my Frank was a right _criminal_ , and I still loved him - even years after he was gone! Even _now_ , sometimes I…” she trailed off, seeming to realise she wasn’t helping, then shook her head. “I just… Oh, John,” she sniffled, clutching at his arms with cold, wrinkled fingers, “Oh, my dear John.”

 

—

_14 months ago_

 

John hadn’t really wanted to see Mike. To be frank, a part of him never wanted to see Mike again. Ridiculous and unfair as John knew it sounded, he couldn’t help but feel this was all Mike’s fault. If not for him, John might have walked - _limped_ \- through Regents Park, gotten a coffee, had a good sulk, and gone back to his bedsit. He’d have sat on the cot, tired and useless and perhaps a bit sad, but all on his own, and without some mad, genius detective to make him run and piss him off and hang the bloody stars for him.

 

But, no. Mike couldn’t have known. Hell, _John_ hadn’t even known.

 

“I’ve got a bit of a knack for setting people up, you know,” Mike murmured over his cup of stale coffee. John had never been to this shop before, and the coffee was quite bad, but it was quiet and cheap and nowhere near Bart’s or Baker Street. 

 

“Oh, yeah?” he responded, taking a gulp of the stuff and letting it scald the roof of his mouth.

 

Mike nodded with a shy smile. “Yeah. Set up a few mates back in uni. And you know Jan and Phil round Bart’s? Just been married?” John shook his head, and Mike shrugged. “Well, I set them up, too. Right good match they are. But…” he looked down at his hands then, his mouth twisting. “I was always proudest of you and Sherlock.”

 

John frowned and bit his lip, staring into the black depths of his paper cup. “Oh?” he asked, blank-faced.

 

“Yeah,” Mike said, with a contemplative tip of the head. “Wife’s always called me a bit of a romantic but…” he trailed off for a second, staring with an absent smile into the middle distance. “I always thought it was kismet that I saw you in Regents that day. Like the stars had aligned or something.” 

 

John bit his lip for a moment, then glanced up at Mike with a hollow smile. “May be,” he murmured. Mike stared at him for a moment, eyes oddly shrewd, then he shook his head with a sad smile and stood up to make his way to the bin, crumpling his paper cup with one hand and patting John’s shoulder with the other.

 

_—_

 

_13 months ago_

 

John wasn’t surprised when Mary led him into her guest bedroom. He wasn’t surprised when she undressed herself, and let John do the same. He wasn’t surprised when she closed her eyes and bit hard on her lip when she came. And he wasn’t surprised when she rolled away from him when they were finished.

 

He _was_ surprised when she sat up with her naked back against the headboard and pulled a cigarette and matchbook from the bedside table.

 

Turning on his side, he looked at her askance. “You smoke?” he asked, propping his head on his hand.

 

She shrugged once and struck a match. Her dark eyes stared intently through her blonde fringe as the flame stuttered to life. “Here and there,” she murmured around the fag in her mouth, bringing the flame to the tip. “You?” she enquired, quirking a brow at him.

 

He scoffed and shook his head. “Bit when I was a kid.”

 

She hmmed and nodded, relaxing back against the headboard. “You should take it up again,” she said, smoke puffing out with the words. “Takes the edge off.”

 

John raised a playful brow. “You tell our patients that?”

 

“‘Course not,” she frowned down at him, then shook her head at his smirk. “Twat.”

 

John snorted a laugh and rolled onto his back, tucking his hands under his head and staring blankly into space. 

 

“You going to ask?” Mary asked conversationally, but there was an odd sort of defeat in it, like she’d asked so many times that she knew the answer by rote.

 

John craned his neck to glance at her with dry, heavy eyes. Her head was leaned back, eyes fixed on the white stucco ceiling, and a pillar smoke rose straight up above her.

 

_Is that what_ I _look like?_ , John wondered as he turned his gaze back to the ceiling. With a small shake of his head, he murmured, “Nope.” He held his breath for a moment, staring at a small spider web in the corner. Its threads vibrated ominously, and - squinting his eyes a bit - John could see the trapped and wriggling body of a housefly near the center. “You?” he mumbled, and tilted his head back towards Mary.

 

She glanced down at him with a sad smile, tiny and imminently breakable. Letting her head fall back and her eyes settle on the smoke forming cumulous clouds above them, she said softly,“Nope.”

 

—

 

_1 year ago_

 

John had no idea how to stop it.

 

He’d had to search Google Maps for nearly an hour before he’d come across a pub that was nowhere near any place he and Sherlock had ever been - and it was in fucking _Hackney_. John had frowned at his phone when it popped up, then shrugged. Maybe he’d get murdered on his way back to the tube.

 

John had shaken his head at that. He wasn’t suicidal. No, committing suicide required effort and energy and _will_ \- none of which John had in any excess at the moment.

 

Mostly, he was just tired. Unlikely the third pint he’d just polished off would help any.

 

And now, after they’d talked all they could about the football and their terrible bosses and the shitty action flick playing at the cinema and the downward spiral Doctor Who seemed to be in, Greg was definitely going to bring up Sherlock, and John had no idea how to stop it.

 

He didn’t want to talk about Sherlock. All he ever did anymore was _think_ about Sherlock, and _dream_ about Sherlock, and accidentally _text_ Sherlock, and order _dinner_ for Sherlock (Saag? John didn’t even _like_ Saag), and play through every single moment - from _Afghanistan or Iraq_ to _Goodbye, John_ \- with Sherlock. The last thing - the absolute _last_ thing - he wanted to do was _talk_ about Sh-

 

“Fuck, I’m so sorry, John.”

 

_Shit_.

 

Well. At least John didn’t need to ask what Greg was talking about.

 

“S’alright,” John muttered, running his finger over the rim of his pint glass. “You were just doing your job.”

 

Greg snorted at that. “Yeah, s’not really been a good excuse since the Nazis, you know.”

 

“No,” John mumbled with a bitter smile. “S’pose not.” He stared blankly into the empty glass, wondering for a moment what it would sound like if he threw it full-force at the floor. He shook his head and glanced up at the rows of bottles behind the bar. “All said and done though now. No use dwelling,” he mumbled. Huh, they had Glenfiddich.

 

Greg was silent for a moment, and John took a deep breath. It reminded him of the time he’d seen a grenade fly over the makeshift fence into their camp. He’d thrown himself over the bloke whose leg he’d been stitching up and taken a breath, waiting for shrapnel to embed itself into his back.

 

Back then, the grenade had been a dud. Tonight, on the other han- 

 

“Did you ever tell him?”

 

John winced. _Shrapnel hurts more than bullets_ , Murray had told him once.

 

“Tell him what?” he shot back, too quickly.

 

Greg gave him a look. “You know what.”

 

_Fuck off, Greg._ “No, Greg, I really don’t.”

 

Greg stared at him for a long minute then, eyes narrowed in consideration. John wondered if this was how he looked at suspects, too. Then Greg shook himself and turned back to his lager.“You shoulda told him,” he muttered, taking a long pull. “S’pose it wouldn’t’ve changed anything, in the end, but-” he tilted his head side to side with downturned lips, “- might have done you a bit of good.”

 

John felt his eyes flutter closed, outside the control of his central nervous system. “Greg,” he murmured, voice gravelly, “Whatever you’re thinking… you’re wrong.”

 

Greg actually had the nerve to _scoff_ at that. “Oh, come on, John. I may not be the genius Sherlock Holmes was, but I’m a good detective. I can certainly see what’s right in front of me.”

 

“There’s _nothing_ in front of you,” John retorted with firm shake of his head. “It wasn’t like that with us. Ever.”

 

“Well,” Greg said, resting his elbows on the bar, “maybe it should have been.”

 

John grimaced and smacked the empty pint down, growling, “Christ’s sa- I’m not _gay_ , Greg.”

 

Greg’s hands came up then, fingers splayed in the air by his silver head. “Yeah, well, not exactly a man, is he? More like a… brain in a jar. I mean,” he gave a concessional nod, “a rather fit, posh jar in a frilly coat, certainly, but-” he shook his head with a one-shouldered shrug, “-just a jar, really.”

 

As if John hadn’t had this conversation with himself a _thousand_ bloody times. “… Was,” John murmured, signaling the barkeep for another.

 

“What?” Greg frowned.

 

“‘Not exactly a man, _was_ he’,” John corrected.

 

“… Yeah,” Greg said, slumping over his drink. “Right.”

 

That was usually the pattern, John had noticed. Whenever anyone tried to bring up his ( _dead, oh my god, he’s fucking de-_ ) best friend, John needed only to remind them that Sherlock was gone, and they’d (generally) leave him be.

 

Of course, Greg - by his very _profession_ \- was more of a chew-on-til-it’s-gone-wet-and-pulpy type.

 

“Still though-” Greg began with a determined jut of his chin.

 

The barkeep slid a pint over to John, and he wrapped his hands around it, muttering under his breath, “Jesus Christ.”

 

Greg held up his hands and licked his lips, giving John a sympathetic ( _pitying_ ) glance. “Look, mate, I’m not havin’ a go, I just…” he sighed, and it sounded almost as heavy as John felt. “I’ve spent the last four years _pretending_ to still love my wife.” John looked up at that. He had known - from Sherlock’s ill-timed deductions, mostly - that the Lestrades were a less than perfect couple, but… he couldn’t help being a bit surprised at the revelation. “And it’s damn hard,” Greg continued. “Impossible, sometimes. But I figure-” he paused for a moment, biting his lip, “I figure it’s got to be even harder to pretend _not_ to love someone. Yeah?”

 

John wanted to glare at him, wanted to call him an interfering arsehole, wanted to scream at the top of his lungs that Sherlock is _dead_ because Greg believed Donovan and bloody _Anderson_ , of all people. He wanted to throw down his drink, give Greg a good left hook, and walk away from the pub, from Hackney, London, England - the whole bloody world.

 

But, more than that, he wanted a drink.

 

“Yeah,” John responded at length. “Yeah, I imagine it is.”

 

John had had four more pints after that, and he’d tried his damnedest not to notice Greg frowning.

 

_—_

 

Sitting now in this lovely room, with the comfy chair and the hardwood floor and the long, sleek glass windows, John thinks - as he pointedly does _not_ read Ella’s writing upside down - that it’s all rather silly; why should he say it when everyone knows? 

 

Why should he say it at all?

 

—

 

No more bullshit.

 

John marches up the stairs, pounds his sore leg hard on the squeaky sixth one, throws open Sherlock’s door, and strides into the living room. Sherlock stands between the sofa and coffee table, maroon robe pulled taut around himself, forearms pressed tightly against his stomach. His face is blank but for the wideness of his eyes and the soft pink blush climbing up his neck.

 

“Jo-”

 

“Alright,” John interrupts, standing at parade rest but for the jerking gesticulations of his hands. “Here’s how this is gonna work.”

 

At the deep, scratching sound of John’s voice (his _Captain-my-Captain voice_ , Sherlock called it), the man’s arms fall down to his sides and his back straightens, eyes flicking side to side. “John-”

 

“No,” John holds up a hand, “this isn’t a discussion, Sherlock. This is _me_ telling _you_ how things are going to be.” He pauses then, lips pursed to near invisibility. “Got it?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes move to rest at a point over John’s shoulder, his face smoothing into unreadable impassivity. “Yes,” he intones.

 

John nods once. “Good. That’s good.” He swallows once and takes a short breath. “So, it’s quite simple really. You’re gonna go into your bedroom, and you’re gonna _take care-_ ” John tilts his head inimically, “-of _that_ ,” he growls, and points a shaking finger at the clear outline of an erection through Sherlock’s pajama bottoms. Sherlock’s eyes flick downwards for a split second, and he draws the robe closed again. “Then,” John continues, voice clipped and just a bit patronising, “you’re gonna come out - _dressed_ \- and we’re going to ring Lestrade, see if we can get a case.”

 

Sherlock blinks several times, pulling his full lower lip through his teeth. “…John.”

 

John shakes his head. He doesn’t want to hear Sherlock’s arguments, his complaints, his ridiculous feigned _misery_ \- in fact, he doesn’t want to hear _Sherlock_ , end of. “You’ll be-” he struggles for a moment, “- _alive_ again soon.” _Not something one says everyday._ “I know Mycroft’s working on the paperwork, yeah? So all you need to do is take care of-” he makes a frenetic if vague gesture, “- _this_ , and we’re good. Simple.”

 

The detective closes his eyes for a brief moment, and John wills, implores, _begs_ him to shut up. 

 

“John…” _No such luck._ “John, you know why I can’t do that,” Sherlock murmurs, tone calm and mild and perfectly _reasonable_. “You know what will happen, John, you’ve seen it yoursel-”

 

“That’s just it, Sherlock,” John interjects, throwing his hands up. “I _don’t_ see why you can’t.”

 

Sherlock frowns and shakes his head. “I’ll delete something, likely something important. I can’t risk-”

 

John licks his lip. This is the bit he’s prepared for. “You deleted astronomy, yeah?” He pauses a moment, jaw jutted out, waiting for Sherlock’s tacit nod. “Well, two years ago, you remembered just enough of it to save a little girl’s life. I know you did, I watched you do it!”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes, and John sees his mouth forming the word _idiot_ , but he seems to think better of it at the last moment. “That was a specific circumstance, John - something I _happened_ to have relearned-”

 

John is nodding spasmodically, dimly aware he must look like he’s having some sort of fit. And maybe he is. “And then French, yeah? How many days did it take you to relearn that one?”

 

“That isn’t-”

 

“How. Many. Days,” John bites out.

 

Sherlock’s eyes lose focus for a second, flittering closed and snapping back open. “Twelve to regain fluency. Another five before I was conversational,” he says, voice deep and a bit wobbly.

 

“Two and a half weeks,” John says with an ugly smile.

 

Sherlock groans in the back of his throat, claw-like hands framing his face. “That isn’t the _point_ , J-”

 

No more _bullshit_. “And then that week you lost, when you were nineteen? You didn’t get arrested for, I dunno, public indecency or, or _murder_ or something - you didn’t solve any cases,” John knows his voice has risen to the point where Mrs. Hudson would be tapping her ceiling with a broom handle, but, for the life of him, he can’t bring himself to care. “So it sounds to me like a week you’d likely have deleted anyway-”

 

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock bellows, and John’s jaw clicks shut.“My _mind_ …” the detective begins, hoarse and seemingly out of breath. “My mind is my strongest tool, my _only_ tool, it’s- it’s everything, John. It’s the sole part of this ridiculous transport that I can actually rely upon, it’s the _Work_ , it’s-it’s-”

 

“ _Broken._ ” Sherlock’s head pops up, face a perfect mask of hurt and surprise. John grits his teeth, hearing the grind of bone on bone resound through his skull. No. More. Bullshit. “It’s broken, Sherlock,” he says in a fierce whisper, “and it has been for twenty-five years.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes do that odd fluttering again and his head jerks to the side. “…No-”

 

“And if you’re too selfish,” John continues, glaring and grimacing in equal measure, “too pigheaded, too much of a bloody - _coward-_ ” Sherlock flinches at that, face closing off entirely, “-to fix it, then…” John trails off, shaking his head. “Then, we’re finished. Done.”

 

Staring intently at the detective, whose face is still blush-mottled and vacant, John almost thinks that he’s beautiful. Like a marble sculpture cut by an angry artist, with swipes of red where his bleeding hands touched the rock. It’s apt, really; Sherlock is lovely, but cold - immovable, but bloodied.

 

John swallows away the wretched image, and swipes his tongue over his lips. “You want things to be… _normal_ again, yeah? That’s what you said.”

 

Sherlock gives a slow nod, face still inscrutable. “Yes.”

 

John nods. “Then you’ll go into that room… and you’ll _take care of it_.” He breathes heavily for moment, nostrils flaring and hands clenching and releasing compulsively. “And I’ll assist with the cases, with the Work, and I’ll make you eat and make you your bloody tea and things’ll _…_ be normal. That, Sherlock, that is the _least_ I deserve, and _far_ more than you do.”

 

It’s an odd thing, watching Sherlock’s indifferent mask crack right down the middle - almost like watching him come back to life. Or maybe watching him die. Of course, John has done both of those things. “John,” he whispers, “I, I _can’t-_ ”

 

“Do you want me?” John asks, more a demand than a question, and Sherlock looks up at him, eyes going wide and lips parting on a gasp. John frowns in confusion and winces at the dawning comprehension, jerking his head to the side. “Do you want me to help with the cases? Do you want me around? Do you-” he scowls, though whether at Sherlock or himself, he isn’t sure, “Do you ever want to _see me_ again after tonight?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes - ice blue today - rove over John’s face, likely cataloguing every wrinkle and blemish and tiny innocuous shift of expression. He swipes his tongue, glistening and pink, across his lower lip, and nods once. “Yes. Yes, I want you. John.”

 

John’s eyes flutter shut for less than a second, then he takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders. “Then go in there, and do it.”

 

Sherlock is already nodding, a small repetitive motion more like a long shiver. “Yes,” he breathes out, with an odd expression. “Yes, alright.”

 

John stares at him, watching his eyes shift in slight jerking motions for about ten seconds, before gritting his teeth and barking in his Captain-my-Captain voice, “ _Now._ ”

 

Sherlock starts at the tone and steps artlessly over the coffee table, breezing past John with an oddly absent, “yes, yes,” as strides toward his bedroom.

 

The door creaks something awful as it swings on the hinges, and the snick of the lock seems to echo into the living room.

 

John stands stock still for a moment, fuming and clenching his fists. Then, with a vicious growl, he bursts into pent motion, bringing his hands up to knead at his temples and compulsively pacing the room - door to sofa to window to chair to door to sofa to window to ch-

 

It was foolish to come here - foolish to even _think_ of it. There’s no _winning_ here; Sherlock’ll do his business and probably delete biochemistry or nanotechnology or some other shite and will be either (A) unable to do the Work, or (B) horribly resentful of John _and_ unable to do the Work. God - _normal?_ Had he actually thought that that was a possibility? Two years gone and a hundred years older, John knows that _nothing_ can be _normal_ now - not with Sherlock being… the way he is, not with a steel-reinforced and triple-deadbolted door, or shatterproof windows, or Sherlock’s bedroom door creaking like it hasn’t been used in years, with half of Sherlock’s sheets on the bloody sofa and tea cups all over the place, and weird scars covering half his body, and-

 

Syllogism. 

 

John shakes his head, wondering where the word came from.

 

Syllogism.

 

_Syllogism_.

 

_… Sherlock is anxious. Arousal and anxiety are cross-wired in Sherlock’s brain. Therefore, Sherlock is aroused…_

 

No. No, because what on earth - besides a hallucinogen-induced mythical hound - could make Sherlock Holmes _anxious_? Sherlock doesn’t _do_ anxiety or fear or any of the other silly _feelings_ lowly gravity-bound mortals do. So what could induce that sort of panic, that trauma, that _stress_ -

 

Oh. 

 

Oh, no.

 

No.

 

No, no, nono _no._

 

_… I have essentially been conditioned to panic_ —

 

P.

 

— _five, six, no,_ seven _, circular scars along his side —_

 

T.

 

— _… eating and sleeping, I ignore those often enough —_

 

S.

 

— _deadbolts, shatterproof windows, sheets on the sofa, coffee table littered with mugs and mugs and mugs and m —_

 

D _._

 

_… God, no._

 

John realises he’s collapsed onto the sofa, just where Sherlock usually sits - where he’s been sleeping for the past month and a half. From here, John can see all the windows, the door, the threshold to the kitchen, the hallway-

 

_All of the exits._

 

And, suddenly, John realises he is every bit the unobservant idiot that Sherlock has always called him.

 

_Oh god, oh my fucking god, it_ is _\- it’s-_

 

_shell shock, combat stress reaction, post-concussional syndrome, post-traumatic stress dis-_

 

For fuck’s sake, why keep this from _John_? Of _all_ people? Had Sherlock honestly thought John wouldn’t believe him, wouldn’t understand, wouldn’t do anything and everything in his power to help him in whatever way he could? Why didn’t Sherlock _tell him_?

 

_…Perhaps_ you _can make my brother see reason —_

 

_— I sincerely doubt that —_

 

_— I’m never sure which of you is the pot, and which is the kettle…_

 

… Sodding hell, John hates when Mycroft is right every bit as much as Sherlock does, but he _was_ right, wasn’t he? What could John have done for Sherlock, _really_? He’d never even overcome his _own_ PTSD — he had met Sherlock, gone on an adrenaline-pumping chase or two, and bob’s your uncle, John was cured. Well, insomuch as an injured soldier with an insatiable addiction to danger _could_ be cured, anyway. But it does beg the question: how was John to save Sherlock when he hadn’t even saved himself?

 

That’s it, though. John hadn’t needed to save himself. Sherlock had saved him.

 

Sherlock had jumped from the roof of a building just as a hidden sniper had set his crosshairs on John. Sherlock had nearly beat a CIA man to death in Irene Adler’s flat after he’d stuck a gun in John’s face. Sherlock patently had _not_ left him to die with Moriarty in a darkened swimming pool, even when John had all but commanded him to do so. Fuck’s sake, Sherlock had taken down a team of Chinese acrobat/assassins to save John and his bloody _date_.

 

With three words - _Afghanistan or Iraq?_ \- Sherlock Holmes had sent a current through John Watson’s heart, woken him up, bid his blood to flow, and set his lungs to breathing again.

 

Sherlock saved him. Christ, Sherlock’s _always_ saved him. And what had John said in response?

 

_You machine._

 

_I don’t care._

 

_… Coward._

 

John hears something break in Sherlock’s room, just as he feels something break in his chest.

 

“Oh, god.”

 

—

 

John rushes to the bedroom door, but finds it locked. _Fucking deadbolt_ , he thinks and starts beating his fist against the cold wood, Sherlock’s name a litany, a plea, a fucking _prayer_ on his tongue.

 

“Shit. _Shit!_ ”

 

Wait. He’d pushed this door open two days ago. It was deadbolted, yes, but it wasn’t heavy - not like the front door. He bunches the sleeve of his jumper over his right humerus, and an image of Sherlock nine days earlier flashes before his eyes. There was a moment, that first day, just as John was leaving that he’d seen… _something_ in Sherlock’s face. Something small and fragile, beautiful and weightless like the skeleton of a baby bird. John had tried to parse it, but it had been too long since he’d last read Sherlock’s micro-expressions, too long since he’d seen his face at all, too long since he’d made him tea or cooked him breakfast or called him a dick or heard him yell at the impossible science of Doctor Who or leaned against him in the stairway, panting and laughing and so fucking _high_ on Sherlock Holmes he thought he might bump his head on the bloody moon.

 

_The stuff you wanted to say but didn’t say it…_

 

Oh, yes. Indeed, it _had_ been too long.

 

John throws every bit of his considerable strength against the deadbolted door and he feels it crack in the center as it flies open, the deadbolt pulling a length of the doorframe clear out of the wall. Stupid door, not even _death_ could keep Sherlock Holmes from John Watson. 

 

He steps over the threshold heedless of the splinters and bits littering the floor. He’s got eyes for nothing, nothing at all, but Sherlock.

 

Sherlock, who is nude on the bed, startling green eyes wide, wet, and bloodshot, his right hand at the juncture of his thighs coiled tightly around himself while his left moves wildly, knocking things off his bedside table.He’s shaking uncontrollably and looks to have nearly bitten through his lip. 

 

_Christ._

 

Sherlock’s head jerks spasmodically, and John realises he might have said that bit out loud. He shakes his head and, in two long strides and a short hop, quickly gets on the bed. He lays his body over Sherlock’s for a moment, like he would an injured civilian caught in a skirmish, but the man keeps thrashing and muttering, shaking like a leaf.

 

“Sherlock. Sherlock.” John lifts his torso and parts his legs, straddling Sherlock’s hips to gentle the flailing, and he reaches down between their bodies to pull the man’s hand away from himself. It takes a bit of tugging, but eventually he gets Sherlock’s grip to relax just enough to pull the hand up by the wrist and press it into the mattress next to Sherlock’s head. Sherlock instinctively brings the other to swipe at John, but John grasps it as well and brings it to the mattress to mirror the other. 

 

Tipping his head down, he tries to meet Sherlock’s wide and glistening ( _terrified_ ) eyes, but the man seems to look right through him. “Sherlock,” he murmurs, voice soft and low, “Sherlock, it’s me. It’s John, John Watson.” No response but a pooling of clear fluid at the outer corners of Sherlock’s eyes. John’s breath hitches, but he talks through it. “It’s 2014, you’re in 221B Baker Street, Westminster, London, England. You’re _safe_ , Sherlock,” he whispers urgently, and his hands slide from Sherlock’s wrists to his sweat-slicked and trembling hands. “Look at me, it’s John, it’s _John_. Oh god, please look at me, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock tosses his head side to side, the errant few curls not damp enough to cling to his skin flopping wildly as he moves. The veins and tendons in his white forearms strain as John struggles to keep him from thrashing, fingers woven with John’s. “John,” he murmurs gravely, eyes still wide and searching like a man struck blind, “ _John_ , you have to go, they’ll kill you, they’ll _kill_ you John, they’ll-”

 

John’s face crumples. He did this. He did _this_ to Sherlock Holmes. “I’m _fine_ , Sherlock, I’m here - I’m, I’m right here. They’re gone, Sherlock, all of them - you’re safe, you’re _home-_ ”

 

Wherever Sherlock is - and John wishes now that he knew, that he’d _asked_ \- he can’t hear John. He whispers harshly in a language John doesn’t recognise, snarling viciously, “Burn the heart out of me, he said- he _said-_ ”

 

John shakes his head, fingers digging into the backs of Sherlock’s hands and leaving tiny purpling spots over his knuckles. “Sherlock, you’re alive, your heart is-” _unbreakable, indelible, fire-proof_ , “- _fine_. Look at me please, _please_ , I’m right h-”

 

“I can’t get _out_ , John, I can’t-” his voice is resounding but tremulous, and a sudden forceful twisting in Sherlock’s torso has John pressing his chest to Sherlock’s, hands sliding back down to grasp at his wrists.

 

“You _are_ out, you’re out, you’re _free,_ Sherlock-”

 

Sherlock shakes his head, and he looks weary and beaten and _shattered_ , and it’s real and wrong, and, for the first time since Sherlock came back from the dead, John wonders how he ever survived. “They’ll kill you, John,” he whispers, and his voice is fractured and hollow. “They’ll- they’ll, oh god, John, John, _John._ ”

 

His eyes alight on John, crossing slightly to focus on his face so close, and he’s turned still and solid like lightning-struck sand. His jaw hangs open, as if it’s John who’s risen from the grave, and he tilts his face up.

 

 John  ~~ feels ~~ _tastes_ Sherlock’s words as they share humid breaths. “You make- you-” Sherlock stammers out, and his eyes fall slowly to John’s chapped lips. “You make the perfect cup of tea.”

 

John’s vision blurs.

 

_I love you, too._

 

Sherlock’s eyes grow wide, and John is almost entirely sure he didn’t say that out loud, and both of them, all of it, _everything_ is ruined and perfect and-

 

Sherlock is kissing him.

 

_When did that happen?_

 

John is surprised for all of two seconds - more by the desperation and the salt on Sherlock’s lips than by the kiss itself - before he presses his lips harshly against Sherlock’s, pulling the perfect top lip between his while his own bottom one gets caught on the sharp edges of Sherlock’s teeth. He tastes like smoke and seawater, and John is stifled, drowning, and entirely addicted. Sherlock makes a wretched sound that John has never heard before - something needy and fearful and so fucking _anguished_ that John can feel it himself, writhing in his stomach and bumping against his heart. 

 

_I’m saying it now. Can you hear me, Sherlock? I’m telling you now, I’m saying it n-_

 

As suddenly as it began, Sherlock pulls away, wrenching his head to the side. Panting and swallowing and bloody _trembling_ , John pulls back, loosening his clenched hands from the surprisingly fragile network of sinew and bone forming Sherlock’s wrists. But Sherlock only grabs him again, weaving John’s fingers with his own.

 

“Don’t let go,” he says, voice ragged and soft and furlongs deep. “Don’t… don’t let go,” _of me_.

 

John’s eyes fall shut, and his lashes are wet, salt crystalising on his skin, sharp and stinging. “You’re not going anywhere,” he whispers, letting go of Sherlock’s hands.

 

Sherlock reaches for him with a heartsick “ _John_ ”, but John’s hands are already sliding into his damp hair. Sherlock’s eyes fall shut, and he quietens, curling his fingers over John’s forearms.

 

“I’m not going anywhere,” John murmurs against perfect, bruised lips. He kisses him again, quick and chaste and just a little bit terrified, and presses his forehead to Sherlock’s. “We’re not going anywhere.”

 

 

~*~

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost there now :)
> 
> As always, this is neither beta'd nor brit-picked, so please forgive and notify me of any mistakes.
> 
> And, I swear, these comments and kudos are literally keeping me alive, thank you so much!
> 
> Next chapter will be up within the week. I'll go ahead and warn you now, explicit content awaits...
> 
> Thanks again!
> 
> Love,
> 
> Local xoxo


	8. Critical Pressure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John adjusted his posture, cleared his throat of the bitter sadness clogging it, and returned the salute, thinking this might be the loveliest and ugliest goodbye he’d ever given, or received.

_1990_

 

 

 

Étienne Duquesne was the quiet sort.

 

He was exceptionally studious and a bit too frail of form for sport - two qualities which had made him something of a pariah when he’d turned up in John’s class four months into fifth year. Even more, his hair was a bit long and quite ginger - nearly orange - and, though he was entirely fluent in English, his uvular trill translated into an odd sort of rhotacism that always set the other students to laughing.

 

John quite liked Étienne.

 

Of course, it was halfway into lower sixth before it occurred to John that he _very much_ liked Étienne.

 

The realisation worried him something awful. Not because he had any issues with homosexuality; since Harry had come out, his father had enough issues with it for the whole family - nearly enough for a bloody subscription - and John never, _ever_ wanted to be anything like his Da. So, no, John wasn’t a homophobe, only…

 

John had only ever had girls. He’d had a fair few - well, three - by that time, but he’d never been with a bloke. Never even thought about it.

 

But there was just something about Étienne.

 

John felt bad even thinking it, really, but… Étienne had always seemed a bit like a girl. The long hair, the perfect blemish-free skin, the thin, fragile structure of his body… He was a bloke, certainly - with the flat chest, thick brows, and slight outward curvature of the zip in his uniform trousers, he could hardly be otherwise, but…

 

There was just _something_ about Étienne.

 

Of course, god only knew what hell would have awaited him if it got round that school that John Watson had a stiffy for Étienne Bloody Duquesne, so John resolved to ignore it. Well, maybe he didn’t _ignore_ it, but he certainly adopted a look-but-don’t-touch mentality about the whole thing. And it worked, more or less. John never took an empty seat next to him, never spoke to him outside of class, never brushed against him as they passed in the corridors, and if Étienne caught him staring every once in a while, John always turned his absent smile to the nearest pretty girl.

 

Then, two weeks before term ended, Rick ( _Dick_ ) Callum from upper sixth “accidentally” dropped his lunch tray onto Étienne’s head.

 

John had just been on his way out of the mess hall. Certainly, he could have gone a different route, but he’d wanted to get in a quick  ~~ letch ~~ look at Étienne before heading into the seemingly endless tedium of maths.

 

In retrospect, he supposed getting splattered with gravy and mash was just karma.

 

Mrs. Hertford, their rotund and slightly mustachioed History instructor, glared at them both - as if _that_ made any sense - and bustled them off to the showers, huffing all the while. As they were pushed gracelessly through the door, John turned to look at Étienne, trying hopelessly to mask his terror at being trapped alone in the _showers_ with him, and Étienne gave him a small, bitter smile.

 

“Sorry,” he murmured, though it came out something like “sogwy”.

 

John shrugged. “Hardly your fault Rick’s a twat.”

 

Étienne arched a brow with a slight smirk. “Perhaps not, but… it’s my fault you’re smothered in potatoes,” he said, tipping his bean-speckled head toward John’s ruined jacket.

 

“What?” John frowned. “‘Course it isn’t,” he said with a shrug, “Wrong place, wrong time is all.”

 

The boy cocked his head to the side. “I suppose.”

 

Grimacing, John walked three paces to the bin and brushed the gunk off of himself and into the can. “Ugh.”

 

“You have a spare uniform?” he heard Étienne ask from behind him.

 

“Yeah,” John nodded, “thank god. You?” he asked, turning back to the gravy-sodden boy.

 

“Yes,” he said with a self-deprecating smile. “It is something of a necessity. This is not exactly a rare occurrence.” 

 

After a brief uprising of butterflies in his stomach at the way Étienne pronounced the word _rare_ , John frowned and turned to face him. “Oh,” he murmured, then shook his head. Toeing out of his shoes - a difficult process as he hadn’t untied them - John brought his hands up to his neck to loosen his tie. “You shouldn’t let him walk all over you. Oughtta do something about it.”

 

Crouching down to untie his shoes, Étienne peered up at him. “Oh? Like what?” he enquired, stepping out of his shoes and reaching up to slip out of his tie in one swift movement.

 

“I dunno,” John said with shrug, pulling off his jacket and dropping it on top of his shoes. “Call him an arse-face. Throw _your_ mash at _him_.”

 

Étienne smirked. “I’m not fond of mash,” he said, laying his own jacket on the floor. “And I can’t really see myself calling anyone an-” he made a face, “‘arse-face’.”

 

John chuckled softly, unbuttoning his shirt. “Yeah, s’pose not. You could say it in French,” he suggested, slipping the mash-scented cotton from his shoulders.

 

“Yes,” Étienne responded, undoing only the bottom few buttons before pulling the whole shirt over his head. The vest underneath rose slightly with the raising of his arms, and John looked down. “I suppose I could. But _face de cul_ doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.”

 

John laughed outright at that. “No, no it does not,” he said with a smile. He bit his lips for a moment, pulling off his socks as Étienne did the same. “What about, er… ‘wanker’?”

 

“In French? _Branleur_ ,” Étienne translated and grabbed the bottom of his vest, pulling it up and over his head with a long, graceful stretch. John felt his face heat, and he turned around nearly quickly enough to lose his balance.

 

“S’better,” he murmured.

 

“Is it?” Étienne asked, voice sceptical.

 

“Mmmno,” John conceded and pulled off his own vest, shivering slightly in the coldness of the tile room. “Er… ‘get stuffed’?”

 

John heard the metallic sound of a zipper being pulled, and he blushed even harder. Étienne hmmed in consideration, then spoke uncertainly, “ _Fous le camp?_ ”

 

John frowned and peeked over his shoulder at the ( _glorious_ ) white skin pulled taut over the other boy’s slight form. “Foo la comp,” John repeated hoarsely.

 

“Mm. Means, eh… ‘fuck off’.”

 

“Ah,” John breathed out with a forced smile. “So does ‘get stuffed’.”

 

Étienne smiled broadly and shimmied out of his trousers, looking up at John demurely. “Any others?”

 

John turned around fully then. God, but Étienne was perfect. His legs were white and shapely and surprisingly smooth for a young man, and the curve of the hips under his pants had John biting his lip. “Er…” he murmured, swallowing once and looking back up at Étienne, “‘cock’?”

 

Étienne stared at him for a moment, shy blue eyes narrowing slightly and a small knowing smile touching his lips. “ _Bite._ ”

 

John’s breath stuttered out of him. “Beet?”

 

“Mm,” Étienne hummed. “ _Bite._ ” He stared at John for a moment longer, then let out a slightly exasperated sigh, turning his back and hooking his thumbs under the waistband of his pants. _“_ Thank you for the advice,” he murmured and slid the pants down over the swell of his ( _oh my lord fucking gorgeous_ ) arse. “I will… consider it.”

 

John tried - god, did he try - to take his eyes off of the long stretch of vertebrae, the venusian dimples, the perfect curvature and crease of the other boy’s arse as he stepped up to the nearest shower, spinning the spigot and sticking a long-fingered hand under the spray. But, Christ, John had wanted so badly to see him, had imagined him like this - _just_ like this.

 

John finally wrenched his eyes away, pulling off his trousers and pants in one go and tossing them haphazardly into the pile of sodden clothes near his feet. He stepped up to the shower next to Étienne, standing under it as he turned the spray on and wincing at the frigid water that doused him. Turning up the heat, he pointedly looked straight ahead of himself and ignored the unfocussed mass of red and white in his peripheral vision.

 

“You should take care of that,” Étienne murmured, apropos of nothing.

 

“What?” John asked, finally turning to glance at Étienne.

 

Sopping wet, the boy’s hair was nearly blood red, and it clung to his face and curled up against the smooth skin of his neck as he tilted his head down, pointing with his chin. John followed his gaze to his own midsection, and…

 

Oh god. Oh, _god_. John was hard.

 

His eyes widened almost comically and he turned his back to Étienne. “No. No, it’s fine,” he said and began scrubbing vigorously at the potatoes dried onto his arms and neck.

 

“Fine?” he heard Étienne ask. “It goes away on its own?”

 

John’s eyes fluttered closed. “Y-yeah.”

 

Étienne hmmed, and when he spoke, his voice was closer than it had been before. “Mine never does. I must always see to it.” John tilted his head back and his jaw dropped, just as he felt the warmth of Étienne’s body coming up behind him. John shivered at the husky whisper in his ear, “Would you like me to see to yours?”

 

“Oh, god,” he whispered, his body swaying backwards, muscles contracting when his shoulder blades brushed against Étienne’s chest.

 

“Does that mean ‘yes’?” Étienne asked and placed his smooth, wet hands on John’s biceps, rubbing his thumbs back and forth.

 

Though the water had warmed up nicely, John shivered. “I-” he began, then snapped his jaw shut, clenching his teeth with the force of it.

 

He felt Étienne tug on his right arm as he pushed at his left, and John found himself being gently turned to face the other boy. He looked down into Étienne’s face (Étienne was one of the few boys shorter than John - only by an inch, but still) and held his breath. The other boy took a small step forward, and John felt something wet and warm bump his thigh.

 

He looked down before he could convince himself not to.

 

_… That’s Étienne’s cock._

 

John realised it was a silly thing to think, and he was quite glad he managed not to say it aloud, but the sentence repeated itself in his head. _That’s Étienne’s cock. Étienne’s cock. Étienne’s. Étienne’s. Cock. Cock. Cock._

 

John tried to lift his head, but his neck seemed to have been taken over by his autonomic nervous system. He opted for squeezing his eyes shut, feeling his brows scrunch up with the effort.

 

“May I?” he felt Étienne whisper against his lips.

 

_No. No no no. Bad idea, bloody_ awful _idea, absolutely n-_ “Oh god yes.”

 

Étienne made a throaty little laugh, and suddenly a warm, slick hand was sliding down John’s chest and over his abdomen, fingers carding lightly through the thatch of hair at his groin, and-

 

“ _Ahhh_ ,” John whimpered. _Whimpered?_ _Christ._

 

“Relax, _Jean_ ,” _oh goddamnit,_ “you will enjoy it. I promise,” Étienne murmured, and, oh god, his hands, his soft, white hands, were smoothing over John, the fingers of one splayed on his hipbone while the other coiled around his cock, tightening, tightening, tightening, and _sliding-_

 

“Oh god. Oh my god.”

 

“You stare at me, Jean. Quite intently. Often I wonder if your eyes might burn me,” Étienne said, and his hand slid down to the base, then pulled up, twisting leisurely. “I find it quite intriguing.”

 

_Sweet Jesus_. John was confused; he’d masturbated before, and, really, it wasn’t so different with Étienne - he’d been wanked off before, as well, and the sensations were always similar, if not the same. But…

 

This was _Étienne_.

 

“There is an idiom, a saying I don’t quite remember. Something regarding two birds and…” Étienne’s hand was suddenly tighter around John, and he felt something hot and heavy pressed hard against the underside of his cock. He looked down, and his knees nearly buckled.

 

Étienne’s cock - a bit smaller than John’s and a lovely rosy colour - was tucked against John’s, the other boy’s hand wrapped tight around them both. John felt his lower body begin to shake, muscles contracting and legs wobbling.

 

“… one stone?” Étienne finished.

 

“ _Yesss…_ ” John hissed out, and his reserve broke. How likely was it this would ever happen again? How likely was it this was happening _at all?_ John’d never considered the possibility of actually being _with_ Étienne - at least not consciously. No, his lascivious imaginings only ever extended as far as picturing the other boy nude, maybe touching himself; even in his fantasies, John was only ever a voyeur, never a participant.

 

But now, now his body was pressed up against Étienne’s, and every point of contact - cocks slick against one another, noses bumping, Étienne’s hand on his hip, and John’s hands finding their way to Étienne’s slim waist - sent tiny, searing currents through his brain. 

 

John wasn’t sure when his hips started thrusting or when his mouth dipped close enough to Étienne’s to share humid breaths, but there was no stopping it now. His knees trembled with the effort of keeping him upright, and he closed the distance between their faces to bite Étienne’s lower lip. Not a kiss, a bite.

 

_Bite._

 

“Are you close, Jean? Are you-”

 

Coming.

 

John’s hips jerked erratically, pelvis pressing against the other boy, and he bit (his own) lip as he spasmed, fingers digging into Étienne’s waist and an embarrassing stinging building behind his eyes. He closed them tight, salt burning his corneas, and breathed raggedly, his cheek rubbing against Étienne’s as he came down.

 

When the grey static in his brain had cleared enough, he slowly leaned back and opened his eyes.

 

Étienne’s eyes were closed, his lashes forming dark red swipes against his skin, and his face was serene. His hair was soaking and plastered to his cheeks, a bit of beans still clinging to the side of his neck, and he was more gorgeous than John had ever seen him.

 

_Oh god_ , John thought. _I just had sex with Étienne Duquesne._

 

“Indeed, you did,” Étienne murmured, eyes still closed and lips quirked. Had John said that out loud? Étienne snorted a little laugh as he opened his sky blue eyes. “I don’t think a man has ever referred to me in the third person whilst I was still holding his penis.”

 

John quickly glanced down and, yes, Étienne’s hand was still wrapped around them both. Though John felt himself softening, and Étienne as well, it occurred to him that if the other boy didn’t let go, it was entirely likely he’d need to go for another round; it was either that, or show up in maths with a tent big enough to take to the Lakes.

 

John’s mouth was moving on its own. “We can’t- I need to- we shouldn’t have d-”

 

“Calme-toi, Jean,” Étienne said with a soft smile, and John frowned. “It’s quite alright,” he continued, hands sliding smoothly off of John’s body as he stepped back under the spray of his own shower. “I know you prefer-” he tilted his face up to the spray, “ _women_ ,” he said, huffing a laugh. “And I certainly know they prefer _you_.”

 

John frowned harder. “What?”

 

Étienne turned to him, his smile shrinking to a tiny, shy quirk of the lips. “I cannot say I am surprised at your ignorance. As I said, you stare at me quite often. Had you not been so-” he chewed his lip for a second, “- _distracted_ by me, you might have noticed that Valerie Hunt has set her sights on you.”

 

John’s brows quirked up at that. “Valerie Hunt?” 

 

Valerie Hunt was a _fox_. Tall and curvy, with dark blonde wavy hair, smoky green eyes, and full, red lips set into a perfectly rounded face, she was _gorgeous_ \- like a bloody supermodel. Add to that she had a wicked sense of humour and always brought liquor whenever she turned up at house parties, and it was hardly surprising she was the most common topic of conversation amongst John’s rugby mates.

 

John frowned. “Valerie Hunt is a ten. She’d not have anything to do with me.”

 

Étienne stared at John for a moment, head tilted to the side and face inscrutable, before he smiled enigmatically. “I wouldn’t be so sure, Jean. You are not without your charms,” he murmured, reaching for the spigot to turn off the water. John watched as he toweled himself off and went over to the pile of clothes, slipping into his pants and trousers, then pulling on his slightly soiled vest. He stooped down to bundle the rest of his uniform in his arms, then slid his sockless feet into his shoes, leaving them untied.

 

Turning round to face John, who stood motionless under the shower which had gone cold around the time he had watched the cotton of Étienne’s pants sliding up his slim thighs and over the soft roundness of his arse, Étienne smiled slightly. It was a familiar, absent sort of smile, the sort he’d seen Étienne bestow upon nearly everyone in school, and John suddenly felt… well, _naked._

 

“You have maths next, yes?” Étienne asked, voice soft and steady, as if John _hadn’t_ just come all over his hands and cock.

 

Yes, indeed, John felt _very_ naked. He cupped his hands over his privates, soft and a bit chafed, and nodded jerkily. “Y-yeah.”

 

Étienne nodded. “Pop quiz. It was a bit difficult, but as long as you remember the Law of Cosines, you’ll likely do fine,” he said, continuing to smile that empty, _I-didn’t-just-say-dirty-things-in-French-and-then-wank-you-off_ smile. Walking the ten paces to the door - and ignoring John’s slightly hanging jaw - he said softly, “Good luck, Jean.” And with a turn of the handle and two silent steps, he was gone.

 

John stared at the door until the water pounding at his back had gone from cold to freezing. Étienne Duquesne was the quiet sort, Valerie Hunt was a fox, and John Watson didn’t at all remember the Law of Cosines.

 

—

 

_2007_

 

 

 

John wasn’t quite sure when they’d started doing this.

 

He wouldn’t call it a _habit_ \- it’s not like they did it everyday or anything - but he certainly wouldn’t call it a phenomenon, either. He remembered it happening once during his practicum at Bart’s, then again when they’d gotten tipsy after a ridiculous shift, also at Bart’s. Then there’d been the night of their combined going away party, where they’d gotten _well_ plastered and, though John’s memory of that night was pretty fuzzy, he was almost entirely sure they’d done it again. They never discussed it afterwards beyond a quick and somewhat flip “thanks, mate” and a rather manly pat on the back.

 

When they’d been stationed together - purely by happenstance - it hadn’t occurred to John that they might continue their not-habit-not-phenomenon. But here they were, a year and a half into their  ~~ hell ~~ tour in Kandahar, and it was the fifth - the bloody _fifth_ \- time they’d done it this month.

 

“What are you thinking about?”

 

John’s head snapped up, and his hand clenched. Bill pulled his own hand away, sucking in a painful hiss, and John flinched in sympathy, loosening his fist a bit and going back to long smooth strokes. He felt Bill’s hand come back tentatively, thumb sliding slick over the head of John’s cock and his short, clean fingernail teasing at the slit.

 

“Sorry,” John murmured, hand moving down to massage the base of Bill’s cock in apology.

 

“S’alright. Rough day, yeah?” Bill said, breath catching at John’s ministrations.

 

“Yeah. Bloody awful day,” John gritted out as Bill’s hand copied John’s own movements. “You did good, though,” he continued, panting out short breaths between the words. “You… stopped the bleeding right up. Aldritch’d be dead if not for - _ah_ \- you.”

 

Bill huffed out a short laugh, biting his lip. “Me? I’m just a nurse. I stuffed him with - _oh, yeah, right there_ \- gauze. You’re the one what - _yesss_ \- stitched him up.”

 

“Don’t - _ah, ah_ \- don’t undersell yourself,” John said, and _fuck_ he’s so close. Just a bit more, just a little bit more- “You’re good, you’re - _mhm, just like that_ \- you’re, you’re gre-”

 

“Oh, fuck, I’m-”

 

_There._

 

Bill spurted over his hand, biting hard into his lip to keep quiet, and John followed a few seconds later, eyes rolling back and legs trembling. It was fortunate that the one private shower stall was small enough they had to be pressed tight against one another, else John might have lost his balance. Of course, as many times as they’d done this, Bill knew by now to put an arm round John’s back when he came, lest the man end up a limp pile of come-soaked army doctor on the floor.

 

Once John could stand on his own again, Bill turned to the dribbling showerhead - it was probably John’s biggest complaint about life on their base, no bloody water pressure - and collected enough of the lukewarm stuff to rinse himself and John off. They both pretended not to watch as their collective release slid down their legs and onto the grimy tile floor.

 

Bill tilted his head toward the stall door, and John nodded, pressing it open and stepping out into the abandoned lav. He grabbed the battered towel bunched up on top of his uniform. It was still a bit damp from the last time he used it, but he didn’t mind.

 

“What were you thinking about?” Bill asked as he stepped out of the stall. He stooped down to grab his own towel and brought it up to his head, scrubbing it over his close-cropped brown hair.

 

“Hmm?” John mumbled, slipping into his pants.

 

“Earlier. When you got distracted.”

 

_Shit._ “Oh. Nothing, just. Nothing,” John said, and sat down to tug on his socks.

 

Bill gave him an exasperated look, followed with an indulgent smile. “What?”

 

John knew better than to try to evade Bill. They’d known each other since they’d started practicum together at Bart’s. They’d both been young - twenty-five, fresh out of uni - idealistic, sociable, and, well, randy. It was hardly surprising that they’d become friends and… whatever else they were. John shook his head. “I just…” he trailed off and bit his lip, looking up at his best friend, best nurse, and brother-in-arms. “You’re not gay, are you?”

 

Bill’s eyebrows shot up, his hazel - nearly golden - eyes widening with a sparkle, and he barked out a short, raucous laugh. “Seriously?” he asked, face split in a broad smile. “Seven years gone by and you’re asking this _now_?”

 

Well, it did sound ridiculous when he said it like that. “No, I mean,” John made a nonsensical gesticulation, “I know you’re not, I just-”

 

“Then why are you asking?” Bill asked, still smiling incorrigibly. He wrapped his towel, beaten up like John’s and with a weathered RAMC insignia across it, around his waist, obscuring John’s view of his well-muscled abdomen and slim hips.

 

John scraped his bottom teeth over his top lip and shook his head. “I just…” he trailed off, and his eyes fell shut as he swiped the heel of his hand across his forehead. “We’ve been doing this a long time, you know?”

 

Bill gave him an obliging nod. “Yyyeah…?”

 

John swallowed. God, why had he even brought this up? Oh, that’s right, he hadn’t - Bill pried it out of him, like always. “But we don’t… we’ve never…” he trailed off again and huffed at himself. He hadn’t stammered his words this much since he’d asked out Valerie Hunt - _bitch_ \- some fifteen years ago. It’s why he loved working in the field so much: with bullets whizzing by and a comrade’s life in his surgeon’s hands, all the stupid, pointless indecision, the tripping himself up and second guessing, went right out the window.

 

“…Talked about it?”

 

Bill’s voice cut through his thoughts, and John glanced up at him, clenching his jaw. “Yeah.”

 

Bill hmmed and tipped his head down to his chest. “Never really felt like we needed to,” he said at length, shrugging. “S’not like we’re  _lovers_ or anything daft like that.”

 

John shook his head. “No, ‘course not.” No, he’d never laboured under the assumption that whatever he and Bill had was anything more than good friendship with the occasional bit of mutual masturbation. Christ sake, most of the his first dates in the last five years (all with women) had been set up by Bill himself, and John had always been glad to be Bill’s wingman on any given friday during their practicum. No, it wasn’t that. It was just… “I don’t do this,” John said, looking down at his hands. 

 

He could hear the frown in Bill’s voice. “Do what?”

 

“This-” he waved a hand again, “-friends-with-benefits thing. It’s not-”

 

“Christ, John,” Bill interrupted and plopped down on the slatted bench across from John. “Are you seriously having a sexuality crisis? Now? In the middle of a bloody _war_?”

 

John ran a hand through his short hair, spiking it up in places. This is exactly why he didn’t want to talk about this. “No, I’m not- I’m not gay either, I just…” He almost wished a grenade would fly through the window, just so he’d have the adrenaline to could get this out. Of course, that had happened two months ago, and his ears still rang whenever things got too quiet, so perhaps not. “Think I’m getting…” _fuck it_ , “ _lonely_ or… or something.” He peered toward the speckled glass window. Ah yes, shatterproof; no grenades would be coming through that. “I just-” he took a short breath, “I just need someone, I think. Someone… _real_.”

 

Finally daring to look up at Bill, John was surprised by what he saw. Bill had a right good sense of humour, always quick with a joke when things got awkward, and he never took anything personally. Where John was a bottle-it-up-til-it-reaches-critical-pressure kind of bloke, Bill was the laugh-it-off-‘cause-there’s-no-point-whinging sort. John wondered how he managed that.

 

But right now, Bill seemed to be seriously considering what John had said. Moreover, from the low set of his brow and the slight pursing of his lips, John thought he looked a bit… sad.

 

Bill hmmed again, and leaned forward, dropping his elbows to his knees and clasping his hands together. “Well,” he said gamely, “who do you think about?”

 

John frowned. “Who do I think about?”

 

Bill nodded. “Yeah, when we’re…” he tilted his head, and his eyes drifted to the side, “you know. Who do you think about?”

 

_Oh._ “No one. Nothing,” John said, raising his brows. The answer surprised him, but - now that he really thought about it - it was entirely true. He never thought about anyone when he and Bill tended to one another - not even _Bill_. In fact, that’s how he thought of it - ‘tending’ to one another. Like scratching a back-itch neither of them could quite reach for themselves. “Nothing,” he said again. “Mind goes blank.”

 

Bill sat back and crossed his tanned arms over his broad and darkly furred chest. “Huh,” he said, lifting a commiserative brow. “Well, that’s no good.”

 

John huffed out a bitter laugh. “No,” he hummed and slumped forward. “No, I suppose it’s not.” He looked up at Bill - Bill, who understood John better than anyone, who always looked out for him, who never asked too much and never gave too little.

 

A thought occurred to John. “Who do you think about?” he asked, wondering suddenly why he had never asked before.

 

Bill stared at him blankly for a second, then smirked wide. “Christina Hendricks.”

 

—

 

_2008_

 

 

 

_Fuck_ , it was so unfair.

 

_Thirteen dead, one survivor - wounded._

 

That’s how it’d been reported to the boys, anyway. That was the word round the canteen, the chatter in the mess hall, the whispers in the echoing corners of the lav, and sombre murmurs round the campfire. 

 

_Thirteen dead, one survivor - wounded._

 

_Bullshit_ , John thought. _Fourteen dead. Fourteen._

 

Christ, it was so _fucking_ unfair.

 

_Victoria Cross Medal awarded, Honourable Discharge pending._

 

Honourable? There was no _honour_ here. There were no awards, no survivors, no fairness, rightness - _nothing_. There were the obliterated corpses of thirteen eighteen-year-old boys and the charred, if breathing remains of one broken, bloodied, _ruined_ man.

 

Fourteen dead. _Fourteen._

 

"Please stop, John."

 

John spun around at the sound of the soft, scratchy voice. There stood James, gloriously nude but for the loose-fitted boxers and the bandages sealed onto his unevenly shaven chest, neck, and left arm with skin tape. The bandages would come off in another week or two, the more minor abrasions would be mostly healed by then, and the roughness in his voice from smoke inhalation would likely be gone by day after next. The scars, though... 

 

The scars would last a lifetime. Maybe longer.

 

"Hey," John whispered. He had no reason to, he realised; it was a private room in one of the nicer hotels in the whole bloody country. With the huge bed and the luxurious sheets and the lovely balcony view, it might have been a rather nice send off, if not for the circumstances. John harrumphed. "Didn’t think you’d be up for a while yet."

 

James, ever stoic, remained blank-faced as he stepped out onto the terrace just behind where John stood against the bannister. "Haven’t slept much lately," he intoned. "Difficult to get comfortable."

 

John couldn't hold back a bitter snort at that. "Yeah. Yeah, I imagine."

 

James gave him a sharp look, piercing blue eyes nearly flaying John, before his features smoothed over as he turned his face toward the early sunrise. "Stop, Watson," he said, soft but firm. "That’s an order."

 

John pulled his lips into his mouth and followed James' line of sight. "Thought you weren’t my C.O. anymore."

 

James raised his unburned eyebrow, looking sidelong at John. "I’m your commanding officer until they put me on that plane."

 

_You'll be my commanding officer forever_ , John thought, then shook his head at himself and leaned his elbows down onto the railing, letting the dawning sun burn little spots into his vision. "Then we just broke-" he sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face, "-a _lot_ of rules."

 

James turned his head to stare at John, considering, and his face broke into a tiny, sad smile - nearly invisible in this light. "Yes, I suppose we did," he murmured and turned his face back to the horizon. "Thank you for that."

 

John's eyebrows popped up, and he looked up at James incredulously. "You’re thanking me?"

 

James tipped his chin down in a sombre nod. "It was… nice."

 

Nice? _Nice?_ It wasn't _nice._ It was desperate and urgent and burning with silent, festering rage at the _wrongness_ of it all, it was battered and bloody and seared into John as fully and indelibly as the events of eleven days ago were seared - _literally -_ into James, it was _ugly._ "James-"

 

"I neither want-" James' face hardened, though he didn't turn to John, "-nor do I deserve, your pity, John Watson."

 

John felt his jaw go slack, and he shook his head spasmodically. "You don’t have it," he said, circumspect.

 

James did look at him then. "No?"

 

"No," John said without a lick of hesitation. "No, you have…" John trailed off for a second, feeling something hot and shamefully sharp growing behind his eyes. "You have quite a bit of me, yes. But not my pity, James," he continued, and looked out into the distance. "Never that."

 

"John..." James began and took a slow, deep inhale. He was building up to something, John knew it, he could _feel_ it, and, fuck, he wished he wouldn't. He wished James would just _say it_ , or, better yet, say nothing at all. John already knew, he didn't need to hear the words. "John, I-"

 

"I’ll never see you again," John interrupted. John wasn't stupid, and he certainly wasn't naive; he knew better than to pose it as a question. 

 

James' eyes fell shut, and it was the same hollow, resigned look he'd made as John quickly sutured the gushing shrapnel wound in his leg. The burns, though grotesque, had been relatively minor; it was the leg wound that would have killed him, would have taken him from the war, from the earth, from _John_. John had had nightmares about that leg wound every night for the last week and a half; sometimes, when he woke up in a cold sweat just before dawn, he could swear he felt its phantom pains.

 

"John," James whispered, edging closer. But John only shook his head.

 

"This is it, isn’t it," he said, a bitter smile curling his lips. "This is all we get."

 

James' face remained impassive, but for the slight dimming in his eyes. It was what had first attracted John to him: James had no tics or tells - no biting his lip in nervousness, gritting his teeth in anger, scrunching his brow in confusion; he was every bit the immovable soldier, and John had served him, admired him, and _wanted_ him in equal measure. 

 

And now, because of a pointless ambush in a pointless war, it was - all of it - _ruined._

 

James cleared his throat, and John winced at the painful sound of it. "It’s more than I deserve," he said, voice steady and sure.

 

_No, just..._ no. "Bullshit," John gritted out. _"_ Bull _shit_ , James. You are, you're-" _brave, selfless, a fucking_ marvel, _you're the pride of this battalion, this whole bloody_ institution- "You are a damn fine soldier. You're a _hero_ , James."

 

James shook his head, bandages on his neck straining with the movement. "Thirteen boys, John."

 

John's composure - what little of it he had remaining - broke, and he banged his fist down on the railing. "And a ten year career serving your country before that! Doesn’t that count for something, doesn’t it _matter_?"

 

"Of course, it matters, John," James said calmly. "No one is saying it doesn’t matter."

 

John huffed. "You’re being discharged-"

 

"Because my injuries have rendered me unable to serve," James interjected, all cold logic and unflappable reasonableness.

 

John turned to face him fully, stretching himself to his full, if meager, height. "They’re taking your _uniform-_ "

 

"I’ve applied for special dispensation. It’s very likely I’ll get it."

 

"Special disp-" John threw his hands up, his voice rising in incredulity, "James, this is ridicu-"

 

" _Watson_."

 

John's jaw snapped shut. Though James was a man of few words, his voice - even wrecked and roughened as it was now - was compelling, a peremptory tour de force. Had it been two weeks ago, had he been in the barracks or the med bay or out in the field, John would have stood to attention at that tone.

 

But here and now, James was not his superior - not a soldier at all, in fact. Here and now, he was _James_ , the man whom John admired more than any other, the man whom John had laid down on silk sheets not six hours ago, the man who had let John _have_ him in a way John had never had any man before. 

 

John squared his shoulders and looked straight into James' sharp, blue eyes. "It could have been anyone. _Anyone_ , James. Anyone at all could have taken those crows into battle, and the same - the fucking _same_ \- thing would have happened. It could have been _any_ of us, could've been _me-_ "

 

"It wasn’t you," James said, tone serrated and keen. His eyes bored into John's for a moment before the creases in his face softened. "It _wasn’t_ you, John. And I thank God for that."

 

James turned his face up to the sky then, indigo waning to cyan, and John frowned. "… James-"

 

James didn't look away from the sky, eyes darting across the tiny points of light evanescing in the distance. "I led those boys to their deaths-"

 

_Jesus Christ._ " _James_ -"

 

"Not intentionally, mind. Not even by some… failing on my part, though-" he sighed softly, "-I will admit it feels that way. But, whether I am at fault or not, _I_ led them there, and there they perished. _You_ , John?" He said, finally looking at John, though his face was stern. "You saved my life."

 

John didn’t want to ask; he knew he _had_ to ask, certainly, but he was sure that, no matter the answer, he wouldn’t like it. He swallowed once. “Do you wish I hadn’t?”

 

James gave him a long, heavy look that John couldn’t quite parse, before glancing down at the marred flesh of his left hand peaking out from beneath the bandaging. “I wish you hadn’t needed to.”

 

John tried his best not to glare at his commander-for-the-moment; he had wished that, too, but John never got the things he wished for.

 

He gritted his teeth and turned back to lean down on the railing. “You didn’t answer my question. Will I see you again?”

 

James didn’t remind John that it hadn’t been a question at all, but the resigned look he gave John said as much. “I can’t say,” he said with an almost imperceptible grimace. “Not for certain.”

 

John nodded slowly. He supposed that was a better answer than a simple (and breathtakingly painful) _no._ “Where will you go?” he asked, not turning from the sunrise, just in case it illuminated the telltale glittering in his eyes.

 

“Oh, the countryside, I should think,” James said casually, but with an undercurrent of quiet desolation that made something coil up tight in the pit of John’s stomach. “I always saw myself retiring somewhere… peaceful.”

 

John tried to picture his fearless commander going grey and fat in the solitude of some bucolic acreage in Somerset or Devon, but found himself drawing a blank. He peered up at James. “Will you have protection?” he asked, eyes scanning the scarred face. “People will be looking for you, you know they will.”

 

James straightened his back and looked straight ahead. “I’ll take care of myself.”

 

John’s nostrils flared. “ _I_ want to-” he began, before biting down hard on the words. They tasted both sour and far too sweet in his mouth, and he found himself saying them anyway. “ _I_ want to take care of you,” he said, voice pitched barely above a whisper. “God,” he shook his head, closing his eyes at his own idiocy, “that sounds… _ridiculous_ , but-”

 

“It isn’t ridiculous, John.” James turned to face him, looking down his aquiline nose with soft eyes. “It’s who you are. It’s why I have always-” his eyes darted across John’s features, and John felt his face warm just slightly, “-admired you so. And- … and I do owe you my life, John. Whatever it’s worth.” 

 

John’s eyes fluttered closed again. _Everything. It’s worth everything._ “James-”

 

“There is no other man in the world to whom I am more proud to owe such a debt.”

 

Opening his eyes, John felt his heart go arrhythmic, just for a second, and he felt light and warm. He noticed, of a sudden, that the line of James’ body had gone rigid in parade rest, and John felt himself mirroring the posture. It seemed they were soldiers yet again, for better or worse. “Thank you. Sir,” John said, and if his voice sounded a bit thick, James didn’t mention it.

 

James smiled slightly at the appellation, before glancing back into the hotel room. “I should go,” he murmured.

 

“You could stay,” John suggested, though he knew he’d be denied. “Until your flight, I mean.”

 

James’ lip quirked in a wry smile. “I fear that would be quite unprofessional. Captain.”

 

John refrained from referring to the several other unprofessional things that happened in the last six hours, and instead smiled broadly, if a bit melancholically, at his commander. “I always liked it when you called me ‘Captain’,” he murmured, stepping up to James. With anyone else, it might have been flirtatious - even coy. But, with James, it was simple fact; when James called him ‘Captain’, John actually _felt_ like a captain.

 

And when James looked down at him like he was now, John felt… Oh, hell, John just _felt_. “I know,” James whispered and leaned his head down just enough to brush his lips against John’s. John sighed shortly, then pulled in a soft breath from James’ mouth. When James pulled back, it took every ounce of John’s willpower not to lean into him. 

 

James straightened up again, taking a small step back, and, in a flash, he was again John’s stalwart commanding officer, Major James Alexander Sholto. “It has been an honour, Captain Watson,” he said at length and drew his unmarked right arm into a salute.

 

John adjusted his posture, cleared his throat of the bitter sadness clogging it, and returned the salute, thinking this might be the loveliest and ugliest goodbye he’d ever given, or received. “The same to you,” he whispered, “Major Sholto.”

 

—

 

In fact, though neither knew it then, they _would_ see one another again. Nearly a decade later, James Sholto would don his uniform and return to London for the first time in ten years. He would pack his firearm into his suitcase, turn up almost unfashionably late, give a soft-eyed salute to his wayward captain, and sit silently at an artfully decorated table. 

 

John Watson would watch him, half warily, half fondly, until such time that Sherlock's horrid speech drew away his attention. When it became clear to John, Sherlock, James, and even Mary that the Major's life was in danger, Sherlock - even knowing John's history with James - would shirk his nuptial duties (though John would have a mind he intended to do that anyway) and move hell and high water to save James' life. 

 

The wedding would end rather horribly, with John's suit and Mary's dress stained with James' blood, and Sherlock disappearing to attend the ambulance, the police, and the would-be murderer. But, before the night was out, James would be stable and safe, Mary would be pregnant (wasn't that a turn up!), Sherlock would play an astoundingly lovely tune on his Strad, and John would be perfectly, ineffably, _luminously_ happy. 

 

 

~*~

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to split the last chapter in half, as it was coming up on 15k words. Final chapter up within the next hour or so.
> 
> As always, this is neither beta'd nor brit-picked, so please alert and forgive me of any mistakes.
> 
> Next chapter is explicit, fyi. But then, so was this one. A bit.
> 
> Love,
> 
> Local xoxo


	9. Carbon Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Congratulations, little brother. You’re alive. MH_

John has woken up in a lot of odd, uncomfortable, and compromising positions in his life. He’s come to covered in sick several times - occasionally his own, but usually Harry’s or Bill’s. He woke up with Mike Stamford’s toes in his mouth once; that was a house party he wasn’t likely to forget - though, come to think of it, he didn’t really remember much of it at all. He took some rather strong sleeping pills on one occasion and had woken up on a neighbour’s lawn, stripped to his pants.

 

But, he has to admit, waking up with a nude, sweat-slick, and unconscious Sherlock Holmes rutting himself against John’s hip rather takes the cake.

 

John remembers lying down on Sherlock’s bed and pulling the other man close to himself, letting Sherlock’s long limbs coil around his body and reveling in it. He even vaguely recalls Sherlock’s frantic breaths slowing as he fell into a fitful slumber, just before John toed off his shoes and shimmied out of his jumper, vest, and trousers. John remembers settling himself on his back, Sherlock’s fevered head resting on his shoulder, one arm strewn across John’s chest, and an absurdly long leg sliding between John’s.

 

But, for the life of him, he can’t quite remember when _this_ started.

 

_This_ being Sherlock grinding his pelvis against John’s side, hard and hot and forming a (rather large) wet spot on John’s pants.

 

John reaches over with his free hand to grab his phone, checking the time: _4:51_. They’ve slept about five hours - not nearly enough for John, but a veritable coma for Sherlock. John wonders at the fact that Sherlock hasn’t woken himself up with his-

 

“ _Oh._ ”

 

John snorts a bit at that. _There we are._ “Good morning,” John murmurs, peering down into Sherlock’s flushed face.

 

Sherlock is frozen in place, hips still, and the arm and leg pinning John down have gone startlingly rigid. His eyes are wide and unfocused, and John thinks he might be having some sort of apoplectic fit.

 

“Sherlock?” John says, frowning. “Are you-”

 

“Good morning, John,” Sherlock replies, voice inflectionless as he smoothly retracts his limbs and pulls himself from John’s loose grasp around his shoulders, rolling himself onto his back. He shifts the opposite direction, putting a good six inches between John and himself.

 

John’s frown deepens, but he nods. “Right, morning. You, er…” he searches fruitlessly for the words, then settles on, “-feeling any better?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes dart toward John’s, but don’t meet them. Instead, he looks back to the greying ceiling. “I’m perfectly fine,” he says, one eyebrow raised archly.

 

_Jesus._ “Sherlock-”

 

“You’ll be late for the clinic.”

 

_Late for the cl-_ “It’s five o’clock in the morning, Sherlock,” John responds, turning his head to stare warily at Sherlock’s profile. “And Saturday.”

 

Sherlock frowns. “Is it?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Sherlock tips his chin down in a nod. “Ah,” he says, then purses his lips. “Well, certainly you must have plans with Mar-”

 

_Christ almi-_ “ _Sherlock_ ,” John interrupts, voice dropping half an octave. Sherlock’s face goes taut, and his mouth closes with a slight clenching of the jaw. John rolls onto his side, propping up his torso on an elbow. “I’m not going anywhere.”

 

If Sherlock recognises the words, he makes no sign of it. “Your presence is unneeded,” he intones, eyes fixed on a spot of dust on the ceiling.

 

John sits up fully at that. “Bullshit, it is.”

 

Deigning to look John in the eyes since he woke up rutting against him, Sherlock scowls inimically and reaches down to pull a crisp white sheet over his nudity. “‘Bullshit’ or otherwise, I _don’t want you here_.”

 

John ignores Sherlock’s glare as well as the useless attempt to preserve his modesty. “Actually,” he says combatively, “you _do_.”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes round a huff and sits up in a flurry. “God’s _sake_ \- you break down my door-” he gestures broadly to the door split down the center and the splinters littering the floor, “you sleep in my bed unbidden, refuse to leave at my request, and now you imperiously attempt to tell me what exactly it is that _I_ wan-”

 

Well, that’s a lark. “Imperiously? Me, _I’m_ imperious? Are you serious?” John asks with an incredulous smile.

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes so forcefully John thinks he may have hurt himself. “I am entirely serious,as always, but I thank you for the Seussical sarcasm. Next you’ll tell me you’ve procured some viridescent poultry and-”

 

_Viridescent?_ Bloody hell, can’t a Holmes just say _green_? “It wasn’t poultry, you twat, it was _eggs,_ and _I_ wasn’t the one who let them go all green and slimy for an experiment-”

 

“That experiment led to our solving a septuple murder in just under sixty-eight hours-”

 

John was sure they’d already had this argument several times before, and at this precise moment - 4:54AM, naked in bed with an undead and startlingly erect Sherlock Holmes - John isn’t particularly inclined to rehash it. “I _was_ bidden,” John interjects. Sherlock looks down at him, confusion tightening his eyebrows in that way John had always thought was rather… nice. “Last night,” John continues. “You asked me to stay.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes - _viridescent_ today, oddly enough - drift off to the side, and he blinks thrice in succession before his features smooth into indifference. “So I did,” he says with a prudish nod, before straightening his back and staring straight ahead at the periodic table poster. “Well, regardless. Your assistance is no longer necessa-”

 

_Like pulling teeth while herding cats._ “You’re still hard.”

 

John isn’t sure how he manages it, but Sherlock’s body seems to tense even further, and his eyes flick down toward his groin for a nanosecond before settling again on the poster. “Yes,” he murmurs absently, “I shall have to make a note that this particular episode has lasted a bit lon-”

 

_Time for the big guns_ , John thinks. “Mycroft is right.”

 

Sherlock sharply turns his head to John’s at that, and they glare at one another for all of five seconds before Sherlock huffs out an exasperated breath. “Mycroft is a fat, nosy bureaucrat with awful taste in suits,” he bites out.

 

John nods. “He’s also that, yes. But he’s right about this.”

 

Sherlock’s face shifts to his _I’m-sure-I’ve-no-idea-what-you’re-talking-about_ look. “About what?” he enquires, lips pulling into his mouth.

 

John feels his face soften, and he leans a little closer to Sherlock. “You. The anxiety, the…” he waves his hand vaguely.

 

“‘Vicious cycle’?” Sherlock supplies, diction crisp. John vaguely remember saying those words - God, was it only two days ago? - and winces at himself. He hadn’t known the half of it then.

 

He licks his lip and tries a different tack - one that had occurred to him just before he slipped into slumber last night,clutching Sherlock to him like a talisman. “Moriarty-”

 

“-is dead-”

 

“-hasn’t lost yet,” John says plainly.

 

Sherlock’s head turns quickly to John, his eyes widening ever so slightly. “What?”

 

John stares blankly at Sherlock for a moment. He’s got that feeling again, that odd heaviness in his chest, that warm coiling in his belly, that presque vu - Sherlock is… _something._ “He hasn’t lost yet,” John says, lowering his eyes falteringly to the mattress. “His game was to destroy you. You-” _deep breath, Watson_ , “- _survived_ , yes. Even took down his network,” he nods, “well done, but…” he trails off and looks back up at Sherlock’s face, expressionless white marble and soft rosy pinkness. “You’ve not left the flat in _weeks_ , Sherlock,” he continues and leans even closer when Sherlock looks away. “Mycroft is right, you know he is. You said yourself you agreed with the logic.”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock hisses, “and I also said his premise was incorre-”

 

“It isn’t,” John says, voice firm and tinged with a bitter sadness, the sort of empathy he knows Sherlock hates, but John can’t seem to rein in.

 

Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed, and he sighs, hollow and heavy. “John-”

 

“Shatterproof windows, deadbolted doors,” John rattles off. “Insomnia, low-grade fever. Can’t relax til you can see all the exits. Can’t keep anything down but tea - if that.” He shakes his head at himself, flopping down gracelessly onto his back again. “God, I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner,” he says to the ceiling. “S’not like I don’t know all the signs.”

 

He hears Sherlock take a slow, deliberate breath. “Well,” Sherlock says gamely. “I’ve always said you’re an idiot.”

 

John snorts and tilts his head up to mock-glare at Sherlock. “Yeah, well, I’m not the one who just said ‘viridescent poultry’.”

 

Sherlock looks down at him, quirking a mildly amused brow. “You are now.”

 

John suppresses a smile. As fun as it is flirting with Sherlock Holmes - which John realises, of a sudden, is exactly what they’re doing, what they’ve _always_ done, in fact - John doesn’t want to skirt the edges any more. He licks his lips, noting the way Sherlock’s eyes follow the movement, then sets his brow in a firm line. “You have PTSD, Sherlock,” he murmurs, and his voice is sombre and heavy; it feels like a revelation, like a vow. “Maybe I’m the pot or, or the kettle, and maybe we do look good in black-” God knows Sherlock does, “-but…” John shakes his head and shifts his dry, itchy eyes to the ceiling. “This isn’t going to go away with sheer force of _will_ , Sherlock. You-” the air rushes from his lungs, and he sinks like a stone into the mattress, “You have to let someone help you.”

 

He hears - actually _hears_ \- the grinding of Sherlock’s teeth as he hisses, “I don’t need _help_.” He inflects the word like it tastes foul on his tongue, like a curse, or _Anderson._ “I’m _fine_ , John.”

 

John tries briefly to count the times he’s heard that phrase in the past ten days, but finds it a bad job. “Mycroft wanted you to talk to a therapist, didn’t he?”

 

Sherlock huffs and leans his long, lithe, and horribly scarred back against the headboard. “Mycroft wants autocratically-enforced world peace and unending sleeves of chocolate digestives.”

 

John snorts. “Did you get that from his online dating profile?”

 

Sherlock makes a face and goes a bit green round the gills. “Ugh, are you _deliberately_ nauseating me?” he says dramatically and swings his legs over the side of the bed, turning his back to John.

 

John pointedly does _not_ look at the scars littering Sherlock’s back, or the scant visible centimetres of a dark crease below his tailbone, or the obscenely perfect dimples just above the pale curve of his arse pressed against the mattress. 

 

Clearing his throat primly, John turns his gaze back to the ceiling. “What, can’t take back a bit of your own?”

 

Sherlock turns his head to the side and throws over a white, unmarked shoulder, “Any nausea you suffered during my experiments was purely circumstantial, I assure you.”

 

John is silent for a long moment. Staring at the atrabilious, wounded man before him, John feels an odd clashing of emotions: he is so enormously glad to have Sherlock alive, back, and (reasonably) himself, and yet… John didn’t miss this. He missed _Sherlock_ , certainly, but he loathed _this_ feeling - the feeling that, even naked and only an arm’s length away, Sherlock was still inexplicably unreachable, miles and miles beyond battered, earth-bound John Watson.

 

Although… perhaps John understands it now. He, himself, was an island once. “Did you know?” he asks Sherlock’s back, keeping his voice mild, almost conversational. He observes Sherlock’s perplexity in the slight tilt of his head, and John soldiers on. “When we first met. Did you know?”

 

Sherlock’s shoulders slump, and John knows he understands. “Know what,” Sherlock asks, though John is certain he already knows the answer.

 

John doesn’t mind saying it; he’d said it to Ella enough times - and more recently than four years ago, at that. “That I wanted to die,” John says, tone level and unashamed. He takes a short breath and stares intently at the back of Sherlock’s head, mussed from where it had rested against John’s shoulder as he slept. “I figured you must have deduced it, but-” he smiles bitterly, “tact never was one of your strong suits, so… maybe you didn’t know after al-”

 

“I knew,” Sherlock interjects, monotone. “I…” he shakes his head. “It didn’t seem necessary to- … I knew.”

 

John sits up slowly, settling himself against the headboard and sidling up to Sherlock’s back. He stares at the long stretch of Sherlock’s neck, where the curls at the nape are just starting to form, and asks softly, “Do you know when I decided not to? When I decided I wanted to live?”

 

Sherlock shifts a bit. “Presumably the night you shot the cabbie.”

 

John’s lips form a small smile. “Nope.”

 

Sherlock turns his head toward John, but his eyes are downcast. “No?” he asks with a slight frown.

 

John shakes his head and pulls his lips through his teeth, tilting his head back. “‘Afghanistan or Iraq’,” he tells the ceiling. He smiles, wry and nostalgic. “Practically the second I saw you.”

 

Sherlock does look at him then, and his expression is exactly as it was ten days ago - precarious and frangible, with bitten lips and hands clenching in the sheets. Grab, release. Grab, release. “John-”

 

“You saved my life,” John says, feeling a thickness swelling in his throat, “with three words.” He swallows around the obstruction, dimly aware that his eyes feel warm and stinging. “You saved my life two years ago, too. In fact…” he looks at Sherlock, illuminated by blue dawn light, and - through his blurred and hazy vision - John thinks he looks like a Renaissance painting, all perfect lines and aching loveliness. “In fact, you’re always saving me, Sherlock,” he murmurs, and his voice is gravelly and harsh. “Always.”

 

Sherlock stares at him, lips slightly parted and eyes wide. “…John-”

 

“Let me help you. Sherlock. Will you-” John feels rather than hears his voice cracking, and he swallows. “Will you let me help you?”

 

Sherlock continues to stare at him, face unmoving but for the slight flutter of his dark eyelashes. After a long moment - during which John can hear his heart beating inside his head - Sherlock’s eyes fall closed, and his lips purse. He drops his head in a weary nod, and John sighs so forcefully he goes mildly lightheaded.

 

Several seconds later, when he realises that he has pressed his lips firmly against Sherlock’s and is pulling his stale breath into his own lungs, John blames it on the vertigo. 

 

Sherlock pulls back just as John lifts a hand to smooth over his cheekbone and into his hair. Sherlock shivers slightly at the contact, and John’s breath catches. “I thought…” Sherlock begins, voice deeper than John has ever heard it. “I thought you wanted things to be- _normal_ again.”

 

John smiles, slow and broad. “Normal’s a bit of a non-starter for us, yeah?” He coils one of Sherlock’s longer curls around his forefinger.

 

Sherlock swallows. “People will talk.”

 

John’s hand slides down Sherlock’s perfect neck, over the crests and divots of his chest and ribcage, along the concavity of his stomach, and settles tentatively on the hardness at the juncture of his thighs. “Then let’s give them something to talk about,” he says, and _squeezes_.

 

Sherlock pulls in a quick breath, and his body jerks. “John, I don’t th-”

 

“Do you trust me, Sherlock?” John whispers against the other man’s lips.

 

No hesitation. “Yes. Implicitly.”

 

John smiles and smoothes his hand back up Sherlock’s torso and presses against his chest until Sherlock takes the hint and leans back. John shifts over and gently arranges Sherlock on his back in the center of the bed, then leans down and noses at Sherlocks neck, whispering, “Don’t move.”

 

He waits until Sherlock nods, quick and jerking, before sliding off the side of bed and gingerly avoiding splinters as he steps toward the ruined door. With one last glance at Sherlock, whose eyes are closed tightly as his chest quivers with each breath, John steps into the hall, darting quickly to the bathroom. 

 

John’s med kit sits on the floor just as he left it nearly a week ago, though it’s been closed and pushed off to the side. He crouches down and flicks it open, finding the surgical lube sitting on top. Taking a brief moment to pray Sherlock put it there and not Mrs. Hudson or ( _God forbid_ ) Mycroft, he takes it in hand and closes up the med kit, rising quickly to his feet.

 

He turns to the door, catching a glimpse of himself - disheveled but smiling wide - in the mirror, and reaches out a hand to-

 

Wait.

 

_… closes up the med kit, rising quickly to his feet._

 

_Rising quickly to his feet._

 

_Rising_ quickly. _To his_ feet.

 

John stares at his reflection for a moment, then bends his knees in a slight squat. No pain, or soreness. Not even a little twinge. He blinks at himself once, twice, then watches as his broad smile widens nearly far enough to split his face.

 

_He did it again. Sherlock Bloody Holmes - he fucking_ did it again.

 

John feels light, airy, like a weightless thing caught on a soft breeze, and he nods at himself. _No more pots_ , he thinks to himself, _no more kettles. No more limping, and no more bloody_ vicious cycles.

 

It’s time. Long past time.

 

—

 

When John returns to the bedroom, he freezes in the threshold.

 

While Sherlock hasn’t shifted from his position on the bed, he has, in fact, _moved_. Although, as John watches, it might be more accurate to say that he _is_ moving.

 

John feels his jaw fall slack as he takes in the sight before him. It’s quite similar to the image of Sherlock from six days earlier - spread out nude on the sofa, quivering and flushed, with his body pulled taut. John had thought then that he looked like a newly opened gift, gorgeous and shrouded in the silk of his robe as if it were fine wrapping paper. But now - with his fine-boned hands clenching in the sheets and his hips rolling slowly and his (red, shiny, _lovely_ ) cock swaying above him - now, he is a gift for _John_.

 

John shudders out a sigh and toes his way over to the bed, crouching down to fish his wallet from the pocket of discarded trousers. Opening the bit of leather, he slips out a condom. The crinkled foil packet has resided there for some time, and he checks the date on the thing, just to be sure. 

 

Assured of its efficacy, John rises up - noting again the complete lack of discomfort in the movement - and slides a knee onto the bed. Sherlock’s eyes snap open at the sudden shifting of the mattress, and they flick to rove over John’s face and form, settling flutteringly on his hands. They widen slightly at the accoutrements John has clutched in his fingers, before his whole face goes taut and unreadable.

 

_None of that now._ “Hey,” John murmurs and lays himself down on his side, leaving a bare few inches between himself and Sherlock. “Relax. I’ve got you.”

 

Sherlock’s face scrunches up, and it’s clear the man just barely restrains himself from saying something snappish, before closing his eyes and nodding once. John smiles and hooks his thumbs under the waistband of his pants, sliding them off with little fanfare. Sherlock’s eyes don’t open, but his eyebrows rise a centimetre, and John knows what Sherlock has just realised; they are both naked in Sherlock’s bed, Sherlock is hard and aching, John is laying the lube and condom on the mattress next to Sherlock’s head and climbing over Sherlock to sit between his legs. From there, it’s hardly a difficult deduction.

 

John is going to fuck him.

 

John shakes his head, _no._ John is going to save him. Takehim. _Have_ him.

 

As if Sherlock can hear his thoughts - which John hasn’t yet ruled out as an impossibility - his body seems to melt into the rumpled sheet beneath, trembles halting and hips falling still.

 

“John,” he murmurs, jaw shaking.

 

John nods. “Yes,” he says, and it isn’t a question, but an answer. Sherlock looks up at him, and his eyes are pale green and watery, like cresting sea foam. John nods again, bringing his face - his lips - right up against Sherlock’s. “Yes.”

 

This time, Sherlock’s eyes stay open, rigidly focused on John’s face, and his long, white legs fall open. John doesn’t look away - he thinks he might never look away again - as he slides his hands down the smooth, perfect skin of Sherlock’s body to grasp under each thigh. He pushes them up toward Sherlock’s chest, hooking the crooks of his elbows under the backs of Sherlock’s knees, and Sherlock’s body curls upwards, his arse pressing flush against John’s pelvis.

 

John sighs, more like a groan, and angles his torso down just as Sherlock tilts his head up, their lips meeting in the space between. Sherlock’s mouth is rough and a bit salty, and John thinks it’s the loveliest thing he’s ever tasted in his life - so much so that he barely registers something hard and plastic slipping from Sherlock’s fingers to his own. He pulls back and looks down at the little bottle of lube and feels Sherlock relax as he lets his head fall back to the mattress.

 

_Wanna see some more?_

 

_Oh, god, yes._

 

John slides his arm out from under Sherlock’s leg, keeping the other one raised so Sherlock is splayed out beneath him. He flicks open the cap of the bottle and awkwardly squirts a bit of lube onto his own thigh. The stuff is just viscous enough not to slide off of him as he chucks the bottle to the side, bringing his fingers to dip into the little mound and rolling them until they’re drenched in slick.

 

With another long glance at Sherlock, whose eyes are still open and bright, he brings his fingers to the dark crease of Sherlock’s arse and presses forward. 

 

He’s hot here, tight and slightly quivering, moist with sweat, and John goes a bit faint as he feels himself swell to what he imagines might be an unprecedented degree. His hips grind unbidden into the back of Sherlock’s raised thigh, and the other man’s breath hitches. John looks up to see Sherlock clenching his eyes shut, lip bitten hard between his teeth, with his head moving side to side in small jerking motions. The sight is gorgeous and strange and oddly famili-

 

_I-I can’t- can’t- oh, god, get me out, I can’t get out-_

 

John’s eyes widen. No. No no _no._

 

“Sherlock?” he whispers, to no response. “Sherlock, look at me,” he commands. “Open your eyes.”

 

Thankfully, Sherlock is still present enough to hear the urgency in John’s quiet voice, and his eyes flutter open. But they don’t settle on John - or anywhere - but flick side to side, quick and just a bit terrifying.

 

John swallows. “Sherlock, can you hear me?”

 

Sherlock shakes his head spasmodically. “John?”

 

“Yes, Sherlock, it’s me, it’s J-”

 

“John, I can’t, I can’t-” _oh god, no_ , “I’m tra- I’m-”

 

Sherlock continues to stammer nonsensically, and John smoothes his hands over every bit of skin he can reach, heedless of the trails of slick he leaves behind.

 

John’s soft, calming murmurs are cut off when he hears an odd sound in his head - like a cracking, or a pop, a harsh burst of sound like a slap. The palm of his lube-slicked hand tingles, and John sucks in a quiet gasp.

 

He had slapped Sherlock. Six days ago, he had slapped Sherlock - hard and shocking - right across the face, and the man’s eyes had snapped open, riveted to John as if he were all that existed. And perhaps, in that moment, he was.

 

Of course, John is hardly going to slap him now.

 

He slides his wet hand down Sherlock’s body and nestles it between the soft cheeks of his arse, his fingers smoothing over the perinaeum and coming to rest over the fluttering muscle below. He presses slightly forward, just as Sherlock starts muttering in a language that sounds faintly like Greek. Sherlock’s breath halts for a second, but his eyes don’t cease their rapid flickering. John continues prodding, pressing, pushing, and-

 

_In._

 

“ _John!_ ” Sherlock calls out, and his eyes snap to John’s, pupils contracting as they regain focus.

 

John smiles - relieved and just a bit smug - and pushes Sherlock’s uplifted leg closer to his chest, spreading him further open. “Back now?” John asks, voice pitched low as he grinds himself against the hard velveteen of Sherlock’s thigh.

 

Sherlock lets out a groan - _oh sweet fuck_ \- and huffs out a flustered scoff. “Back? I’ve not gone anywhere, how could I be-”

 

John crooks his finger, prodding at the slight protrusion inside of Sherlock’s body and shuddering at the hot, slicked texture of his flesh. Sherlock’s mouth falls open on a lightly voiced sigh, higher in pitch than he’s heard Sherlock before.

 

“There we are,” John murmurs, and pulls his finger fully out before pressing it back in again. Sherlock hisses, and his neck elongates as his head rolls back. “Another?” John grits out, and Sherlock’s head moves in a gesture neither negating for affirming.

 

“I don’t c- anything. _Anything_ , John, just-” he says, and his voice cuts out, lips still moving, as John presses in with two fingers. 

 

It’s tight - ridiculously so - and John’s fingers are painfully pressed up against one another. He makes an aborted attempt to scissor them, then continues pushing forward, searching for the place inside Sherlock that makes his entire body shake. When he finds it, Sherlock cries out, the tendons in his neck straining as he simultaneously pulls his head back and presses his arse onto John’s hand. John bites his lip, attempting to maintain some modicum of restrain-

 

“ _No._ ”

 

John’s head pops up, and he meets Sherlock’s eyes, only to find they’ve gone cloudy again.

 

_Shit_.

 

John pulls his fingers out, and reaches blindly for the condom, bringing it to his mouth and tearing it open carefully. He slips it on, rolling it down himself gingerly, and gathers the last bit of lube dripping down his thigh, rubbing it quickly onto his cock. He keeps his touch light, feeling as though he might come - or simply _explode -_ were he to press too hard.

 

Sliding his arm under Sherlock’s other leg, he folds the man nearly in half and slides the head of his cock against the wet and only slightly relaxed ring of muscle between Sherlock’s legs. It’s hot, and so _fucking_ tight, and twitching ever so slightly against John as he presses forward. He watches Sherlock’s eyes - reverting to their odd jerky REM state - as he pushes, knowing it will take a fair bit of manoevring and pressure before the muscle gives. He won’t cause Sherlock any damage - he’s sure of that - but it’ll hurt.

 

It _must_ hurt.

 

“Sherlock,” he whispers, tilting his head as close to Sherlock’s as he can, which still leaves him several inches away from Sherlock’s angular face. “Sherlock, push against me. I know you can hear me, love, push against me,” John says, keeping his voice as steady as he can as he presses himself against the virgin body of his dead-then-alive-now best friend. “Sherlo-”

 

_Oh my GOD._

 

The head of his cock lurches forward but a couple centimetres, and he’s in. He’s _in_.

 

“ _Aahhh…_ ” Sherlock moans as his eyes flick to John’s, wide and, thankfully, still. His jaw clenches, teeth bared, and there’s a bit of liquid pooling against his lower eyelids.

 

John nods, ignoring the nearly all-encompassing urge to thrust, and tilts his head forward. “That’s it,” John murmurs encouragingly. “There’s a good man. Stay with me, yeah?”

 

Sherlock nods, wide wet eyes still latched unmoving on John. “Y-yes. John.”

 

John makes an open-mouthed smile. “That’s good, love. Keep talking. Tell me how it feels.”

 

Sherlock is silent for a moment, but for the soft glottal sounds emerging from his straining throat. Then he swallows and sucks in a breath. “It- it… _hurts_.”

 

John nods slowly and pushes Sherlock’s thighs a little wider, watching as the man’s eyes roll back. When he feels the ring of muscle squeezing at his cock loosen - just slightly - he presses forward, another inch or so sliding into Sherlock’s body.

 

Sherlock makes a sound nearly like a sob, and his eyes lose focus again. “John, _John_ , it’s-”

 

But John already knows. He pulls a hand from behind Sherlock’s knee and slides it up to the man’s head, fisting it in the longer curls at Sherlock’s crown. Just as the man’s eyes start their ominous flickering, John tightens his fingers and _pulls_.

 

John wouldn’t quite call the sound Sherlock makes a ‘scream’, but it comes close, and his whole body tenses for a split second, before melting back into the mattress, eyes returning to John’s. John smiles slightly, and watches as the wetness in Sherlock’s eyes collects at the outer corners.

 

“Alright?” he asks.

 

Sherlock nods, a bit dreamily. “Yes _._ ”

 

John makes a tiny thrust with his hips. “Shall I-”

 

Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed for a second, then snap back open. “ _Yes_ ,” he says, voice low and demanding as he lifts the leg John isn’t grasping to wrap around John’s waist.

 

John feels the movement open Sherlock up a bit more, and he can’t stop himself from sliding forward, deeper, _in._ Sherlock grits out a low, constant groan as John moves, and John is nearly there, nearly all the way-

 

He feels his bollocks nestle against the curve of Sherlock’s arse, Sherlock’s body tensing and relaxing around him.

 

John realises he has looked down, watching as the tiny orifice stretches and twitches in its attempt to accommodate him. It’s glorious and gorgeous, and never before has he had this powerful, primal, elemental urge to just _take_.

 

A soft sniff brings John’s attention back to Sherlock’s face, and his jaw drops.

 

Sherlock looks… _destroyed._ His face is flushed red, eyes such a bright and vivid green as to be nearly unearthly, lower lip bitten harshly between his teeth, head craned back with the grip John still has on his hair, and clear, shiny tear tracks extending from the corners of each eye back to his hairline.

 

He looks vulnerable. Taken. _Breached._

 

John is close - too close. He hasn’t come this close this fast since he was a bloody teenager.

 

“Are you with me?” he asks, partially to gauge Sherlock and partially to distract himself from his impending orgasm - _not yet, please, not yet._

 

Sherlock swallows. “Of course.” His voice is wrecked and gravelly, and John tenses his body in an attempt not to come from the lovely sound of it.

 

“Yeah?” John grits out. “You remember astronomy?”

 

Sherlock tries to scoff, but it comes out closer to a sob. “The entirely p-pointless study of space, the physical u-universe, and celestial obj-jects? Of course, I remem- _ahhh…_ ”

 

John pulls himself out, just slightly, and pushes back in. He patently ignores the cresting pleasure singing along his cock, and, instead, tries to recall any of the silly astronomy facts he had learned two years ago in an effort to irritate Sherlock.

 

“How-” he starts, then interrupts himself with a groan. “How far is the earth from the- from the sun?” he asks, making another small thrust.

 

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, pushing a few errant tears down the sides of his face. “The…” he begins, then sucks in a breath and opens his eyes. “The distance from the earth to the-” _thrust_ “ _ahh_ \- sun is called an as-astronomical unit. It’s approximately one hundred and fifty million kilome-” _thrust_ “ _haah, ah! -_ kilometers, though th-that number varies as the earth or-” _thrust_ “- _oohhh_ rbits the sun.”

 

John nods his head, tugging a bit at Sherlock’s hair when he sees Sherlock’s eyes lose focus. “Right. That’s good, love,” John says lowly, rolling his hips and feeling Sherlock mirror the movement. “What about French? Not for-” _Jesus Christ, so tight_ “-forgotten it, have you?”

 

Sherlock’s face scrunches up, and he shakes his head, but doesn’t speak. John swallows once, pulling out a bit further and thrusting back in, slow but hard. Sherlock lets out a little whine that has John’s cock twitching and thickening further.

 

“How do you say…” Oh god, John doesn’t know any French. Realistically, he’s not sure he knows _anything_ right now, besides what Sherlock’s body feels like when it’s trembling and tightening, lancing itself on John’s- “ _cock_. How do you say ‘cock’?” he asks, with a quick thrust.

 

Sherlock’s eyes roll back, and John tightens his hand in his hair until his eyes come back to John’s. His mouth works for a moment, falteringly and without sound, before he licks his swollen lips. “ _B-bite_ ,” he murmurs, and John groans and pushes forward hard.

 

“ _Yes_ ,” John hisses out, and it’s too late to prevent it now, it’s unstoppable, mounting, rising, _coming-_

 

“ _Ah- aaahhhh_ …” he hears Sherlock scream - and this time it is undoubtedly a _scream_ \- and John’s eyes lock onto Sherlock’s, green and shining, but clear and focused.

 

John feels a splash of wetness against his chest just as his vision goes spotty and dark round the edges, Sherlock’s resounding moans and the ambient sound in the room coalescing into a low, ringing buzz as John comes in spurts, mindlessly jerking his hips and clenching at Sherlock’s hair, his heart pounding in iambic pentameter: _Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock._

 

_—_

 

John has woken up in a lot of odd, uncomfortable, and compromising positions in his life. But, he’s got to say, Sherlock leaning over him and pulling a - slightly drying and tacky - condom off of John’s cock _definitely_ takes the cake.

 

John is lying supine, head resting heavily on Sherlock’s pillow, as Sherlock sits cross-legged beside him, still gloriously nude and holding up the condom, eyes staring intently at its contents.

 

John cracks a wry smile. “You’re not going to experiment on that, are you?”

 

Sherlock turns his head to John and quirks an eyebrow. “Of course, I am,” he says, as though this is obvious, which John supposes it was. “Though I shall likely need another sample,” he continues, turning back to the upraised condom. “This one is adulterated with spermicidal lubricant and cis-polyisopropene molecules.”

 

John frowns and sits his torso up on his elbows. “Cis-what?” he grumbles.

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Latex.”

 

“Ah,” John nods, then scrubs a hand over his face, letting himself fall back onto the bed. He gives Sherlock a slow once over, noting the disarray of his hair, the tightness of dried sweat on his neck and chest, and the small finger-shaped bruises forming on his thighs. John gulps. “You alright?”

 

Sherlock pauses in his examination of the condom and turns to look down at John. His face is blank for a moment, then his eyes seem to soften, and a small smile touches his lips. “Quite,” he rumbles, voice low with sleep.

 

John smiles back and feels a pulsing in his gut at the voice. “Good.”

 

Sherlock stares at him for a moment longer, considering, before tying off the condom and setting it on his bedside table. He turns back to John, but lowers his head, biting his lip for a moment. “What of Mary?” he asks monotone.

 

John’s eyebrows climb up his forehead, and he suppresses a smile. Feigning innocence, he asks, “What about Mary?”

 

Sherlock looks at him then, brow furrowing in bemusement. “You’re dating.”

 

John tips his head in a nod. “We go out on dates, yeah.”

 

“That’s what I just said,” Sherlock huffs.

 

“No,” John says, his tone just this side of patronising, “you said we’re _dating_.”

 

Sherlock scrunches up his face for a moment, eyes darting to the side as if trying to recall something, which John realises is exactly what he’s doing. John sees the moment Sherlock finds what he is searching for - _A date, where two people who like each other go out and have fun -_ and nearly laughs at the way Sherlock’s mouth purses. “You aren’t…” Sherlock begins, tilting his head, “…romantically involved?”

 

John smirks. “Nnnope.”

 

Sherlock’s shoulders relax a bit, and John’s smirk turns to a soft smile. He thinks, for a moment, that Sherlock might relax entirely, maybe lie down next to him and let John touch him and kiss him and-

 

No such luck. “You don’t have female friends,” Sherlock remarks, head popping up.

 

John frowns and shakes his head at the sudden change in direction. “What? ‘Course I do.”

 

Sherlock shakes his head firmly, and his face and posture shift to full deduction mode. “No,” he begins, voice distant, “you have female acquaintances, certainly, but not _friends_. Not ones that you see as regularly as Mary-”

 

John sighs. “Sherlock-”

 

“Generally speaking, it makes you uncomfortable to spend excessive time with women with whom you aren’t pursuing a sexual relationship - likely because you find it difficult to remain platonic in such situations, unless-”

 

God _damn_ it. “ _Sherlock-_ ”

 

“Unless there’s some pre-existing reason for the lack of romance,” Sherlock continues, pointedly ignoring John’s protests, “i.e. she’s homosexual, which Mary isn’t, or otherwise involved, which Mary isn’t, or-”

 

Sherlock’s rambling cuts off quickly, and John knows Sherlock’s come to a conclusion - likely the correct one, judging by the look on his face. John’s eyes flutter closed, and he licks his lip. He knows what’s coming, certainly, but he holds onto the tiny hope that Sherlock won’t-

“When?” Sherlock asks, tone soft and surprisingly kind.

 

John grits his teeth. “When what?” he asks, needlessly.

 

“Mary’s husband,” Sherlock intones, shifting closer to John’s prone body. “When did he die?”

 

John sighs. He should have known Sherlock would piece it together, should have just told him outright, really, but… well, he supposes he doesn’t really have a reason why not, doesn’t really understand it himself. “Two weeks before you did,” John murmurs lowly. He sniffs once and casts his eyes to the ceiling. “Aneurysm. Had a headache one day and then-” he snaps his fingers, “gone. Mary…” he frowns at the thought of her back then - tired, drawn, and endlessly sad, much like himself. “Mary started up at the clinic a while later. I think… I think we recognised each other, like-” he shakes his head, searching for the words, “I dunno. Like we both knew the other was… missing something. Some _one_.” He looks up at Sherlock then, and is only mildly surprised to see the sadness on his face. John nods once and looks back to the ceiling. “We made a go of it, yeah, but-” he smiles wryly, “wasn’t meant to be, of course.” He sighs again and lays his hands on his belly, fiddling with the hairs there. “She’s a good girl, though,” he says with a nod. “Good friend.”

 

He peers up at Sherlock, whose eyes have gone a startling blue, and makes a watery smile. Sherlock bites his lip for a second, then sidles up to John, stretching his long body along John’s side and sliding an arm over John’s chest. He leans his head down to nose at John’s neck and whispers into his ear, “Please forgive me.”

 

John’s eyes fall closed again, and he swallows compulsively. “‘Course,” he says, and turns his head to press a chaste kiss to Sherlock’s lips. “‘Course, I forgive you.”

 

Sherlock smiles then, and it’s slow and radiant like a sunrise. As he leans back, though, it quirks up into a smirk. “You’re not going to insist we get married, are you?”

 

John huffs out a surprised laugh, then rolls himself half on top of Sherlock, eliciting a grunt from the other man. “Not immediately, no. But, eventually,” he murmurs, leaning his face close to Sherlock’s, “yeah.” The side of his mouth lifts in a half-smile. “That gonna be a problem?”

 

Sherlock makes a disgusted face, belied by the smile in his eyes. “Ugh,” he groans out, then settles himself back against the pillow, lifting his chin imperiously. “I shall need time to prepare my vows. And our wedding song,” he says, waving a hand. “A few years at least.”

 

John laughs out loud. “Done,” he says, and pushes himself up on his hands, leaning over the other man. His eyes travel down Sherlock’s chest, over the smattering of scars, down to his quiescent cock, then back up to his ethereal face. _There it is again_ , John thinks. _Sherlock is… something, something, some-_ “Art,” John whispers, eyes going wide with the realisation. At Sherlock’s perplexed look, John smiles broadly and continues, “Christ, Sherlock, you are so…” he swallows round the lump in his throat, “You’re art. Do you know that? You’re _art._ ”

 

Sherlock stares at him wide-eyed for a moment, before a small, awed smile spreads on his lips. “Bright,” he whispers, apropos of nothing.

 

John frowns. “‘Bright’… _Me_?”

 

Sherlock nods, eyes flicking over John’s face as if trying to commit it to memory. “Mm. Golden. Like ignited carbon black.”

 

_Jesus Chr-_ “Oh, god,” John says under his breath, then pushes a hard kiss on Sherlock’s mouth, revelling in the way his lips part without hesitation. When he pulls back, he slides his hands into Sherlock’s hair, tugging at the coiled strands. “You can never leave me again,” he whispers desperately, and it’s a demand and a plea. “Promise me.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes are still roving over his face, marvelling at him. “You love me,” he says, as if it’s the greatest deduction he’s ever made.

 

John scoffs. “Of course, I do, you idiot. Now promise me.”

 

Sherlock stares at him for another few seconds, then he smiles, eyes glassy. “Strontium nitrate,” he intones, “with aluminium fuel.”

 

“What?” John asks with a small, bemused smile.

 

“Burns bright red,” Sherlock continues, before tilting his head up for a soft, short kiss, “and very, _very_ long.”

 

—

 

They are awoken several hours later by two almost simultaneous text alerts from Sherlock’s phone, the little dinging sounds tripping over one another.

 

John sits himself up on his elbows and grumbles, “What is it?”

 

Sherlock leans over to grab his phone, then returns to his place pressed up against John’s side. He holds the phone aloft to read. “Lestrade,” he says, eyes flicking across the screen. “He’s got a case. Triple homicide, but he suspects it might be a self-defence-murder-suicide,” Sherlock continues, then huffs, “Barely a five.”

 

John sniffs and nods, turning to draw an arm across Sherlock’s chest. “Mm. And the other?”

 

Sherlock looks down at him and smirks, turning the phone towards John. John squints and peers at the screen.

 

_Congratulations, little brother. You’re alive. MH_

 

John stares at it for a moment, hoping that Mycroft is referring to the paperwork going through on Sherlock’s return and not the fact that John had just deflowered him quite thoroughly last night. He winces, wondering if Sherlock had checked for cameras recently. “Bet he said that the day you were born, too,” John mutters, sitting himself up.

 

Sherlock huffs out a laugh. “Almost certainly,” he says, and watches as John settles himself against the headboard before doing the same. He bites his lip for a full five seconds before raising his eyes to meet John’s. “Case?” he asks conversationally, though John can hear the worry under the tone.

 

John stares at Sherlock for all of ten seconds, wondering if it’s even legal to be this ridiculously, stupendously, _inexorably_ happy. He fakes a long-suffering sigh and casts a glance about the room. 

 

“Where are my pants?”

 

 

 

**~ _fin_ ~**

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god DAMN, that was rough.
> 
> Well, we have reached the end! Thanks to all of you who have read along, provided feedback, and stuck with me through the (sometimes slow) updating process. I love all of you!
> 
> A couple last notes:
> 
> 1) I'll likely be posting the original version of this piece, which is entirely dialog with a smattering of parenthetical action. Not sure if it'll interest anyone, but I figure, why not?
> 
> 2) I do have two other concepts in the works, one of which is a somewhat shorter fic, which would be centered mostly on the concept of John being not-at-all-even-a-little-bit gay. The other, slightly more developed concept is a post-series-three Omegaverse. If you'd like to put in your two cents regarding which you'd like to read, feel free to drop me a line :)
> 
> 3) Last but not least, I'm dedicating this last chapter to scullyseviltwin, who has just updated her fic "It Figures", which is the Sherlock-ified take on "You've Got Mail" that I'm pretty sure I've been waiting my whole life for :)
> 
> Again, thank you so so so SO much for your support and readership; you guys are my favorite people in the world!
> 
> Love,
> 
> Local xoxo


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